my arms round you. Oh! why will you always
turn away from me?"

I did not answer, except by moving my face
shudderingly aside.

"Margery," she whispered again, "tell me
why you have turned against me and John
Hollingford?"

"You and John," said I, opening my eyes
and looking at her. "Yes, that is it. You and
John. Dear me; am I not grateful to you
both? How odd!"

"Margery, shall I swear that you have no
reason to be jealous of me."

"Oh no, Rachel," I said; "don't swear. Go
away and be happy, as I am, and sleep
soundly."

She moved away a step or two, but came back
hesitatingly.

"Margery," said she, "I want to tell you—
if you will listen to me—I have a great
trouble."

"Have you?" said I. "To think of any
one having a trouble in this world! I can't
believe it."

"But, Margery," she said, putting her hands
on my shoulders, and looking down at me, "I
have a secret, and I came here to tell it
to you, and you must listen, for it concerns
you."

"Does it?" said I; " then you had better
not trust me with your secret, Rachel. I think
I have a wild beast chained up in me
somewhere, and it might do you harm. I advise
you not to have anything to do with me. Good
night."

"Ah!" said she, bitterly, turning away,
"was ever any one so changed in so short a
time. This is Miss Tyrrell's doing. She is a
spy upon me, and yet I defy her to know
anything about me. She has filled you with her
own cruel prejudice."

"Do not say anything against the Tyrrells in
my hearing," I said. "They are the dearest
friends I have."

"If that be true," answered Rachel, thoughtfully,
"I have nothing more to say. The thing
that I was going to tell you does not concern
you, and I have been spared a humiliation for
the present. When you know all, you can cry
out against me with the rest. Remember," she
added distinctly with proud bitterness, "I give
you full permission."

She turned away and moved across the room;
she stopped before the dying fire, standing
above it, and looking down into it. I saw her
dark figure between me and the fading glare,
her head lowered on her breast, her arms hanging
dejectedly by her side. She mused there a
few minutes, and then went noiselessly out of
the room.

                CHAPTER X.

EARLY summer was already upon the land,
flowers were blooming, and the reign of sunshine
had begun. The cuckoo haunted the hall
gardens, rabbits basked in the glades, and the
woods were alive with singing birds.

A little thing happened which surprised me.
A troop of us were riding one day along the
moor, and by the outskirts of the road, I, being
foremost, espied two figures at a distance among
the trees, and recognising the girls from the
farm, I pressed on and came on them unawares,
where they were down on their knees, gathering
mosses out of the grass. Mopsie was on my
neck in a moment, but Jane was a little shy. I
had to coax her to be frank.

She thought I must be changed, she said, I
stayed away so long. If I cared for them any
more, I would have come to see them. Mother
was not very well, and John, when at home,
was dull. He fretted about something. Did I
not know what it was about?

"Whether I come or stay, you must believe
in me, Jane," said I; "I am not one of those
that change. I will go back with you now and
see your mother. Here are the rest of our
party coming; we will meet them and tell them
what I am going to do."

"That is Miss Leonard," I added, seeing
Rachel riding foremost. "Are you not curious
to see her?" Jane said "yes," and walked on
beside me, holding my whip.

The sun was in Rachel's face till she passed
into the shade right before us. She raised her
eyes then and looked at us, started violently,
gave her reins a sudden wild pluck; the horse
reared, plunged, and flung her. I screamed
and sprang to the ground, but Jane stood
immovable, looking at Rachel where she lay,
staring at her with a face which had changed
from glowing red to white. I pushed her aside
to reach Rachel. She turned quickly round,
and, without a word, began walking rapidly
towards home. She passed out of sight,
without once looking back. It all occurred in
a minute.

The other riders came up; Rachel was not
injured, only a little bruised and faint. She
was too nervous to remount. Our party rode
home, and I sat with Rachel on the grass, till a
servant came with a pony carriage. The man
took our horses, and I drove Rachel home.
She cried hysterically all the time whilst we
waited in the wood. I did not see any more of
Jane, and, of course, I did not pay my proposed
visit to her mother. Rachel did not attempt
to explain the cause of her accident, and I did
not ask her anything about it. I remembered
Jane's face, and I puzzled over her strange
conduct in silence. It was impossible not to
think that she had beheld in Rachel some one
whom she had not expected, and was not well
pleased to see. Yet this young girl had been a
child when she had come to Hillsbro', and she
had not known Rachel by name. My head
ached distressfully over the puzzle, but I could
make nothing of it. Jane was an odd girl; she
had conceived a prejudice against Miss Leonard,
and had taken a whimsically rude way of showing
it. This was all the conclusion I could
come to on the subject.

One evening we had a dinner party, and a
good many young people being present, we