yet Martha did not like the talk. To a reserved
woman it was a little too much like a freedom
to pry so narrowly into the personalities of their
domestic life; but Faber was a man difficult to
withstand on any point which he might choose
to press, there was so much blandness and
friendly confidence of manner united to so much
resoluteness of purpose and distinctness of aim.
Which did not much assuage Martha's discomfort,
or make her more affectionately inclined to
their cousin, or disposed to discuss the sites
and aspects of the Fellfoot bedrooms with greater
pleasure.

On the whole, the sisters had never passed a
more uncomfortable time than they did during
this visit, and, indeed, as the hours wore on,
Hester's dislike became only too apparent. She
sat as far away from Faber as was possible, her
head bent over her work, seldom looking up, and
never speaking unless spoken to, and then
she gave only curt cold answers, looking at
Martha while speaking to her cousin. But he
seemed to be much struck with her; and truly
she was a rarely beautiful creature— and almost
persecuted her with his attentions and
compliments, seldom taking his eyes from her, and
doing what he could to engage her attention and
win a pleasant look for his reward. But the
girl sat resolutely, almost sullenly, apart, in
what would have been a rude display of temper
and caprice, but for the pleading sweetness of
her timid manners and the softening charm of
her beauty.

Heartily glad were they when the moment
came for his leave-taking, and they were rid of
his handsome face and flattering smiles. Their
solitude came like a delicious repose to them
after the weariness of this man's visit; and the
two sisters sat together rather later than usual,
and even more lovingly than usual, as if to enjoy
to the fullest the one true happiness of their
lives. But their comments on their cousin were
none of the most complimentary, and their
determination not to know him better, and by
no means to go to Greymoor, very distinct.
Then they went to bed, and the house was shut
up for the night; if, indeed, that could be called
"shutting up," which was merely locking the
front door, and leaving half the windows open.
The utter solitude of the place had made them
careless, and the nightly fastening of Fellfoot
had grown to be a mere name. The sisters
always slept with their windows open; not so
much as a stray cat invading the premises in
general; and to-night— this hot, stifling, thundery
night— the house was like a pierced fan, open
at all sides to catch the faintest breath of air
stirring.

At about midnight the storm burst forth. It
had been brooding all the day, and when it came
it came with terrific violence; but, strangely
enough, it did not rouse the household— not
even Hester at the first, constitutionally
susceptible to all the influences of electricity as she
was. At last one tremendous flash, followed by
a deafening roar, woke her up; and just in her
night-dress as she was— without slippers or
wrapper— she softly opened her bedroom door,
and crept across the passage to take refuge with
her sister; wondering, indeed, why she had not
come to her, as she generally did when there
was a thunderstorm, knowing her nervousness.

She found the door, turned the handle, and
went in; but as she entered her foot slipped in
something strange, something thick and wet
and warm. She shuddered and called "Martha,"
but no one answered; again she cried; and
then a flash, flaming through the air, showed her
the body of her sister, with her face downward
to the carpet, lying in a shining pool of crimson
on the floor. But it did not show her that other
thing crouched in the dark corner beyond.

"Martha! Martha!" Hester whispered, and
touched her, kneeling by her; and kneeling in
the warm, wet, crimson pool. Again the lightning
flashed, showing now the white night-dress,
her hands and the dropping lengths of her golden
hair, all dyed crimson— all wet and soaked in
blood.

"Martha! Martha! Wake! Speak to me!"
cried Hester, turning the dead face towards her;
but the head fell heavily back in her arms, and
there was no kind voice to answer her.

Then the truth came upon the girl, and saying,
"Take me with you!" she flung her arms over
the dead body, and sank senseless— her pale
head resting on her sister's neck, and from head
to foot crimsoned with her blood.

The man crouching in the corner came and
looked at them both; turning the dark lantern
in his hand full upon them while he stood and
studied them; and once carefully putting back the
blood-stained hair from Hester's face, he stooped
down and kissed her lips, and kissed them again,
with a strange pleasure. Then he cut a long lock
from her head, and turning away, continued his
search for what he wanted: all the while as quiet
and unmoved and resolute as if murder was an
every-day occurrence, and need stir no man's
nerves. When he had found what he wanted,
he looked again at the two lying on the floor,
and taking up Martha's hand, drew the ruby
ring from her finger; and guided now by the
flashes of the fierce tempest, he went softly out
by the way by which he had entered, letting
himself down from the window noiselessly.

As the morning broke the storm passed, and
when the servants came to call their mistress it
was a glad fresh summer day: the woods were
alive with the songs of birds and the hum of
bees; the trees and flowers were radiant with
freshened bloom, and rich in scents; the blue
sky had not a cloud, and the green earth did not
seem to have a care— but within that quiet room
lay one sister stabbed to the heart, and the other
paralysed and imbecile.

It had been done for plunder, every one said:
Martha's costly ruby ring was gone; and the
davenport, in which she kept her money and
valuables, was rifled; and though some things
which, it might have been thought, would
have tempted a thief, were left, others were
taken, and all was in confusion. No one
knew, indeed, though, what had been taken; for