not one friend in the world, except him whose
love for me is, you say, to be his destruction.
Give me but one kind word," she sobbed
piteously. "Give me such a look as you
would throw upon a dying beggar." She
drew herself nearer. "If," she continued,
passionately, "you hate me because I have kept
my secret from you, if breaking my solemn
pledge, will save him from ruin——"

"Well," said the sister-in-law, looking down
grimly but eagerly upon the suppliant.

Eusta threw herself at Mrs. Calder's feet:
"I confess. We are married."

Mrs. Calder thrust herself suddenly back,
as if Eusta had stung her. Married! The
coming child legitimate, and herself childless!
Even if George Dornley do not forfeit his
inheritance by sedition and treason, the estates
will still revert to his lawful heirs, and pass
away from her husband! O, that old Mr. Dornley
were in a condition to cut off the entail!

Eusta was not conscious of being so hatefully
fully spurned as she really was; for her
attention was acutely averted. Mr. Calder's
carriage had stopped and its occupant had
alighted: but there came a new sound from
the road and Eusta started to her feet and
exclaimed,

"I hear him!"

She flew to the window and looked, wildly
but vainly, through it into the thick small rain.

"It is Black Nan," she said, listening
intently. " I know the sound of her canter
as well as I know his footfall."

She paused and reflected.

"Yes, George has missed the groom and has
ridden the poor staunch creature all the way.
That is why he is so late. At last! at last!"

She fixed her eyes on Mrs. Calder when a
horse rattled past the window and suddenly
stopped:

"You hear? He is at the door. He
dismounts! George, George, come to me!"

She threw up her arms ready for George
Dornley to fall into them. Thomas Hockle
presented himself.

A shrill unearthly laugh pierced the gloom
in the road, shot through the village, frightened
the three horses standing at the cottage
door, and made them so restive that the groom
could scarcely hold them. Miss Pim, stamping
letters for the night post, drew aside her
curtains, looked through her own windows into
the window of Corner Cottage, and observed
some one supporting a lifeless woman towards
a sofa, and another woman hastily closing the
shutters. Perceiving a carriage and pair
and a saddle-horse at the door, she thought
Mr. George Dornley had arrived, and
ejaculated as she returned to her duty: "Poor
thing! Joy has overpowered her."

In the postmistress's excitement, her hand
strayed from the letters to one of the little
night-gowns which lay folded beside them
and she stamped upon it the words,
"Crookston Withers, June nine," with, to her
extreme mortification, indelible ink.

There was a hurried but subdued talking
in the road close to the door.

It was the voice of Mrs. Calder speaking
to her husband, "Yes, that must be done
—at once."

Miss Levine's servant burst into the post
office, breathlessly demanding, "The things!"
and Miss Pim, anticipating why they were
wanted, did not ask a single question; but
quietly packed them so that the rain should
not damp them in their short transit.

The servant had not departed two minutes
before she again appeared. "Missus is very
ill," she said, "and they have sent Tom Hockle
(who has only just come back from Alfreton)
upon Black Nan, off to Matlock on some
errand or another; though the mare's so
tired he thinks he'll never get there. They say
that I am in the way, and they have turned
me out too. I'm to sleep with mother tonight.
They're opening the boxes Missus had
packed up to take to London with her, and
they've ordered the carriage not to stir from
the door, if it waits there all night. For my
part I'm amost mazed with it all; but I must
be off to fetch Molly Garstang."

When Miss Pim went outside to shut her
shutters, previous to going to bed (her hour
was ten o'clock) she saw the nurse hurrying
towards Corner Cottage.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

ALTHOUGH the dawn which rose when the
ninth of June had died away, began to
brighten the brow of Linney Hill, and the
first beams of the morning sun faintly
glistened upon the mountings of a carriage
rolling rapidly over it from Corner Cottage
towards Matlock; yet Arch Lane,
with its overhanging trees, continued
as dark and silent as a cavern. The
birds fluttered round the outer branches
without uttering a note, and there was not a
breath of air to rustle a leaf. But the silence
was harshly broken when a tall man
—his dress torn, and his Hessian-boots
muddy to the tassels—entered the lane
to make his way towards Crookston.
He had not penetrated far into the lane when
he distinguished a whispering amongst some
persons concealed in the hedge; then came
a clattering of sabres and a cocking of
carbines; then a rush; then a fierce struggle
between him and a couple of dismounted
hussars. There was so little light that had
not a corporal-major, looking grimly on,
guarding another prisoner—a portly person
in a blue coat—called out to the combatants to
stand clear, they would have been ridden
over by the carriage as it came dashing
through the dark and rugged avenue. It was
obliged to stop. A window was let down;
a man thrust out his head, and ordered the
postilion to go on for his life; or, if he didn't
(an oath darted out between the teeth like
a bullet) he would shoot him!

The prisoner—who had not noticed this,