Martha Todyeare was not a communicative
woman, and even Hester was never told of any
business matter; so that it was only conjecture
at the best. One thing, however, was sure, the
ring— and, presumably, money, from the rifled
state of the davenport. This was all that was
ever known; and who had done the deed no one
could imagine, or why, unless for plunder; and
yet, if for plunder, why had not certain valuables
been taken, lying handy as they did? It was
conjectured that the assassin had got in by the
open window, climbing up by the ivy which
grew thick over the house, and favoured by the
storm which drowned any noise he might have
made. Martha had been struck down, perhaps
while crossing the room, probably to go to her
sister. There was no sign of any struggle, and
she lay in the position in which a person would
have fallen if struck from behind. There was
no expression of terror on her face, as would
have been had she seen her assailant; but it
was calm and still as usual, showing that at least
she had been spared the anguish of knowledge:
which was something.

Faber was just leaving the inn, where he had
put up for the night (having lost his way between
Fellfoot and the railway inn where he was
rightly bound, so taking refuge here, at
midnight or after, drenched to the skin with the
terrible storm), when the fearful news of the
murder came in. The Fellfoot gardener, half
scared himself, had ridden over to the village
for legal assistance; for the two ladies were so
lonely there was no one to turn to as of course,
and the law must do its business without the
intervention of any friend. When it was found
that Faber was still within distance, to him was
at once given the superintendence of matters and
the charge of Hester; and all with whom he was
brought in contact expressed their satisfaction
with him, so kindly, so prompt, so considerate
as he was, and so anxious for the welfare of his
poor young cousin.

The world was quite at rest on the subject of
Hester Todyeare, when Faber's sister Susan
came down to Fellfoot, and at once stepped into
Martha's place of head and manager. Hester,
indeed, was unfit to undertake any kind of
responsibility. Still gentle, lovely, timid, she
showed only one active feeling— and that was
an intensity of hatred for Faber, and a childlike
dread of Susan.

Susan was not unlike what Martha might have
been if harder, older, and sterner; Martha, with
all her womanly tenderness left out, and her
strength roughened and sharpened to hardness
and aggressiveness. They carried Hester off
to Greymoor for change of air. It was of
no use her protesting or refusing: she was in
their hands, and there was no one to help her
out of them. So they took her to their own house,
and people said they hoped the change would do
her good, poor girl; but it was not a pleasant
charge her cousins had taken on themselves, for
who would like to have a dazed half-idiot always
about them? Indeed, from the first Susan
seemed to have felt it as a painful duty that
must be accepted, doing her best to perform her
part as well as was in her nature to allow; but
she could never conquer the girl's visible terror
of her, nor could Faber overcome her hatred, and
the more he tried with flatteries and caresses
and tender little cares— cares so tender that one
could scarcely uuderstand how they came from
so strong and stern a person— the more
pronounced was her hatred, her horror, and her
fear.

Greymoor was, as he had said, the very
antithesis of Fellfoot— a wild, lonely, desolate moor,
without a tree or shrub anywhere; an illimitable
horizon lost in the restless sea for half the
distance round, the other half leading down into a
broad open country, showing villages and shady
copselands, meadows full or sheep and cattle,
and churches with their flame-shaped spires
pointed ever up to heaven, and all the sweet
pastoral richness of English country life; but
this only in the distance— a peace and sweetness
not belonging to the dwellers in that
desolate house on the moor; like happiness
seen in other's lives, but not coming near our
own.

But the change from the damp low-lying
house at Fellfoot did Hester the physical good
people had anticipated; her cheek lost a little
of its cream-coloured, corpse-like look and got
rosier in hue, and more transparent; her eyes
were less fixed and more observant; she ate
more as if she knew that she was eating, and not
only as if it was a merely instinctive act of
obedience; she lifted her feet from the ground
when she walked, and did not drag them, as she
had done; sometimes the tears came into her
eyes as if she was thinking, and sometimes her
colour changed; she would answer now when
spoken to, instead of, as hitherto, sitting dumb
and motionless until Faber came near her, when
she would flame up into a passion of wrath
more terrible because more mad than even
her stupor had been; or when Susan touched
her, and then she would utter a little cry as if
she had been hurt, and shrink away from her
as a half-tamed animal might have done. Now,
however, all this had become modified, and
some of her symptoms had wholly disappeared;
and by the time she had been nearly a year at
Greymoor she was the same as other people,
saving always her intense timidity, and the
wonderfully touching sweetness of her beauty.
Lovely as she had always been, she was now
almost unearthly; and looked, as an old woman
said of her, "as if she had been in heaven for
a time."

The year was round again, and it was a warm
calm summer's evening, with the wind blowing
softly from the south, like the days of rest which
sometimes come before a death. Hester was
in the garden, sitting where she could see the
sea— her favourite place; and Susan and Faber
were standing by the window in the dining-room
talking low together.

"I do not like it, Faber," said Susan; "if it
is against her consent, it will be a crime."

"Crime or no, it must be," said Faber, in a