"Yes," she replied, with a low steady voice,
looking him full in the face, with sad solemn eyes.

The truth flashed into his mind. He shaded his
face, and did not speak for a minute or two. Then
he said, not looking up, a little hoarsely, "This,
then, was the shame you told me of long ago."

"Yes," said she.

Both sat quite still; quite silent for some
time. Through the silence a sharp clear voice
was heard speaking through the folding-doors.

"Take the kedgeree down, and tell the cook
to keep it hot for the judge. It is so tiresome
people coming on business here, as if the judge
had not his proper hours for being at chambers."

He got up hastily, and went into the dining-
room; but he had audibly some difficulty in
curbing his wife's irritation.

When he came back, Ellinor said:

"I am afraid I ought not to have come here,
now."

"Oh! it's all nonsense!" said he in a tone of
annoyance. "You've done quite right." He
seated himself where he had been before; and
again half-covered his face with his hand.

"And Dixon knew of this. I believe I must
put the fact plainly to you—your father was the
guilty person? He murdered Dunster?"

"Yes. If you call it murder. It was done
by a blow, in the heat of passion. No one can
ever tell how Dunster always irritated papa,"
said Ellinor, in a stupid heavy way; and then
she sighed.

"How do you know this?" There was a kind
of tender reluctance in the judge's voice, as he
put all these questions. Ellinor had made up
her mind beforehand that something like them
must be asked, and must also be answered; but
she spoke like a sleep-walker.

"I came into papa's room just after he had
struck Mr. Dunster the blow. He was lying
insensible, as we thought—dead, as he really was."

"What was Dixon's part in it? He must have
known a good deal about it. And the horse-
lancet that was found with his name upon it?"

"Papa went to wake Dixon, and he brought
his fleam—I suppose to try and bleed him. I
have said enough, have I not? I seem so confused.
But I will answer any question to make it
appear that Dixon is innocent."

The judge had been noting all down. He
sat still now without replying to her. Then he
wrote rapidly, referring to his previous paper,
from time to time. In five minutes or so he
read the facts which Ellinor had stated, as he
now arranged them, in a legal and connected
form. He just asked her one or two trivial
questions as he did so. Then he read it over to
her, and asked her to sign it. She took up the
pen, and held it, hesitating.

"This will never be made public?" said she.

"No! I shall take care that no one but the
Home Secretary sees it."

"Thank you. I could not help it, now it has
come to this."

"There are not many men like Dixon," said
the judge, almost to himself, as he sealed the
paper in an envelope.

"No!" said Ellinor. "I never knew any
one so faithful."

And just at the same moment the reflection
on a less faithful person that these words might
seem to imply struck both of them, and each
instinctively glanced at the other.

"Ellinor!" said the judge, after a moment's
pause. "We are friends, I hope?"

"Yes; friends," said she, quietly and sadly.

He felt a little chagrined at her answer. Why,
he could hardly tell. To cover any sign of his
feeling he went on talking.

" Where are you living now?"

"At East Chester."

"But you come sometimes to town, don't you?
Let us know always—whenever you come; and
Lady Corbet shall call on you. Indeed, I wish
you'd let me bring her to see you to-day."

"Thank you. I am going straight back to
Hellingford; at least, as soon as you can get
me the pardon for Dixon."

He half smiled at her ignorance.

"The pardon must be sent to the sheriff, who
holds the warrant for his execution. But, of
course, you may have every assurance that it
shall be sent as soon as possible. It is just the
same as if he had it now."

"Thank you very much," said Ellinor, rising.

"Pray don't go without breakfast. If you
would rather not see Lady Corbet just now, it
shall be sent in to you in this room, unless you
have already breakfasted."

"No, thank you; I would rather not. You
are very kind, and I am very glad to have seen
you once again. There is just one thing more,"
said she, colouring a little and hesitating. "This
note to you was found under papa's pillow after his
death; some of it refers to past things; but I
should be glad if you could think as kindly as you
can of poor papa—and so—if you will read it——"

He took it and read it, not without emotion.
Then he laid it down on 'his table, and said,

"Poor man! he must have suffered a great
deal for that night's work. And you, Ellinor,
you have suffered too."

Yes, she had suffered; and he who spoke had
been one of the instruments of her suffering,
although he seemed forgetful of it. She shook her
head a little for reply. Then she looked up at him
—they were both standing at the time—and
said:

"I think I shall be happier now. I always
knew it must be found out. Once more, goodby,
and thank you. I may take this letter, I
suppose?" said she, casting envious loving eyes at
her father's note, lying unregarded on the table.

"Oh! certainly, certainly," said he; and then
he took her hand; he held it, while he looked
into her face. He had thought it changed
when he had first seen her, but it was now
almost the same to him as of yore. The sweet
shy eyes, the indicated dimple in the cheek, and
something of fever had brought a faint pink
flush into her usually colourless cheeks. Married
judge though he was, he was not sure if she had
not more charms for him still in her sorrow and
her shabbiness than the handsome stately wife