there, to be on the spot. Three days," and as
she spoke, she ran out to the gardener, who was
sweeping up the newly-mown grass in the front
of the house. She gave him hasty and unlimited
directions, only seeming intent — if any one had
been suspiciously watching her words and actions
— to hurry him off to the distant village, where
the auction was to take place.

When he was once gone she breathed more
freely. Now, no one but the three cognisant of
the terrible reason of the disturbance of the turf
under the trees in a certain spot in the belt
round the flower-garden, would be likely to go
into the place. Miss Monro might wander round
with a book in her hand; but she never noticed
anything, and was short-sighted into the bargain.
Three days of this moist, warm, growing weather,
and the green grass would spring, just as if life —
was what it had been twenty-four hours before.

When all this was done and said, it seemed as
if Ellinor's strength and spirit sank down at
once. Her voice became feeble, her aspect wan;
and although she told Miss Monro that nothing
was the matter, yet it was impossible for any one
who loved her not to perceive that she was far
from well. The kind governess placed her pupil
on the sofa, covered her feet up warmly, darkened
the room, and then stole out on tiptoe, fancying
that Ellinor would sleep. Her eyes were, indeed,
shut; but try as much as she would to be quiet,
she was up in less than five minutes after Miss
Monro had left the room, and walking up and
down in all the restless agony of body that arises
from an overstrained mind. But soon Miss
Monro reappeared, bringing with her a dose of
soothing medicine of her own concocting, for she
was great in domestic quackery. What the
medicine was Ellinor did not care to know; she
drank it without any sign of her usual merry
resistance to physic of Miss Monro' s ordering;
and, as the latter took up a book, and showed a
set purpose of remaining with her patient, Ellinor
was compelled to lie still, and presently fell
asleep.

She wakened late in the afternoon with a start.
Her father was standing over her, listening to
Miss Monro's account of her indisposition.
She only caught one glimpse of his strangely-
altered countenance, and hid her head in the
cushions — hid it from memory, not from him.
For in an instant she must have conjectured the
interpretation he was likely to put upon her
shrinking action, and she had turned towards
him, and had thrown her arms round his neck,
and was kissing his cold, passive face. Then she
fell back. But all this time their sad eyes never
met — they dreaded the look of recollection that
must be in each other's gaze.

"There, my dear!" said Miss Monro. " Now
you must lie still till I fetch you a little broth.
You are better now, are not you?"

"You need not go for the broth, Miss Monro,"
said Mr. Wilkins, ringing the bell. " Fletcher
can surely bring it." He dreaded the being
left alone with his daughter — nor did she fear
it less. She heard the strange alteration in
her father's voice, hard and hoarse, as if it was
an effort to speak. The physical signs of his
suffering cut her to the heart; and yet she
wondered how it was that they could both be alive,
or, if alive, that they were not rending their
garments and crying aloud. Mr. Wilkins seemed to
have lost the power of careless action and speech,
it is true. He wished to leave the room now his
anxiety about his daughter was relieved, but
hardly knew how to set about it. He was
obliged to think about the veriest trifle, in order
that by an effort of reason he might understand
how he should have spoken or acted if he had
been free from blood-guiltiness. Ellinor understood
all by intuition. But henceforward the
unspoken comprehension of each other's hidden
motions made their mutual presence a burdensome
anxiety to each. Miss Monro was a relief;
they were glad of her as a third person,
unconscious of the secret which constrained them.
This afternoon her unconsciousness gave present
pain, although on after reflection each found in
her speeches a cause of rejoicing.

"And Mr. Dunster, Mr. Wilkins, has he come
home yet?"

A moment's pause, in which Mr. Wilkins
pumped the words out of his husky throat:

"I have not heard. I have been riding. I
went on business to Mr. Estcourt's. Perhaps
you will be so kind as to send and inquire at Mrs.
Jackson's."

Ellinor sickened at the words. She had been
all her life a truthful, plain-spoken girl. She
held herself high above deceit. Yet, here came
the necessity for deceit — a snare spread around
her. She had not revolted so much from the
deed which brought unpremeditated death, as
she did from these words of her father's. The
night before, in her mad fever of affright, she had
fancied that to conceal the body was all that
would be required; she had not looked forward
to the long weary course of small lies, to be done
and said, involved in that one mistaken action.
Yet, while her father's words made her soul
revolt, his appearance melted her heart, as she
caught it, half-turned away from her, neither
looking straight at Miss Monro, nor at anything
materially visible. His hollow sunk eye seemed,
to Ellinor, to have a vision of the dead man
before it. His cheek was livid and worn, and its
healthy colouring, gained by years of hearty
outdoor exercise, was all gone into the wanness of
age. His hair even, to Ellinor, seemed greyer
for the past night of wretchedness. He stooped,
and looked dreamily earthward, where formerly
he had stood erect. It needed all the pity called
forth by such observation to quench Ellinor's
passionate contempt for the course on which she
and her father were embarked, when she heard
him repeat his words to the servant who came
with her broth.

"Fletcher! go to Mrs. Jackson's, and inquire
if Mr. Dunster is come home yet. I want to
speak to him."