"Something is wrong with you, Arthur?"
she said quickly, but trembling.

"Yes, Geraldine—very wrong."

"With me?" and her hand stole softly up
to his face.

"Yes, with you—only with you."

"Why do you not look at me when you
say so?" she said, creeping closer to him.

He turned his eyes upon her. Her eyes
were so full of love, her whole manner and
attitude so eloquent of child-like devotedness,
that his heart overflowed and overwhelmed
all his jealous fancies, like feverish
dreams drowned in the morning sunlight.
He took her hands in both of his, and looked
fixedly and lovingly, but sadly, into her eyes.

"So beautiful and so false!" he said, half
aloud. "Can she be really faithless with
eyes so full of love and innocence? And,
yet—has my mother lied to me?"

"Why do you speak so low, Arthur? I
cannot hear you. Tell me frankly, what it is
that lies on your heart against me. Whatever
it may be, tell me openly; and I will
answer you from my very soul, as I have
always answered you. I have never deceived
you, Arthur; and I would not begin a career
of falsehood and hypocrisy to-day."

"You must read these. I can tell you
nothing more." Arthur put his mother's
letters into her hands.

Geraldine read them through—all of them
—and they were numerous. Her colour
deepened and her eyes darkened; but she
read them to the end quite quietly. She
gave them back to him with the same
unnatural stillness: sitting for a moment in
utter silence. Then she rose.

"Arthur," she said, "you must come with
me to your mother. Your cousin and Miss
Vaughan must be there, too."

"Nonsense, Geraldine," said Arthur, who
had a constitutional horror of demonstrations;
"I will have no foolish scene for the whole
county to talk of. What we have to do must
be done quietly, and between ourselves: alone.
Henry and Miss Vaughan, indeed! I will
not hear of such folly!"

"I insist!" said Geraldine, in a deep, still
voice, and with heavy emphasis.

"I insist, Geraldine! That is strange
Ianguage from you to me!"

"The occasion is strange, Arthur. Ah!"
she added bitterly; "and you, too, have made
that old, blind mistake! Because I am not
exacting nor selfish, in my daily life; because
I am naturally timid and easily depressed;
you think that I could have no sense of
justice to myself; no self-respect; no firmness.
If you have made that mistake, you
must unlearn your lesson to-day. Come! this
affair must be explained at once!"

"But, Geraldine——"

"Are you in league with your mother
to defame me?" said Geraldine, her lips
quivering and her eyes almost flashing.
Arthur put away the hand which she had
laid on his arm; and, without uttering
another word, strode gloomily by her side
into the house.

At the hall-door they encountered Miss
Vaughan. Geraldine knew that she was
coming early to ride with her and cousin Hal
to the Dripping Well; so that there was
nothing remarkable in her arrival at this
moment; nor in cousin Hal's standing there
at the door, assisting her to dismount.

"You are not ready, I see," said Miss
Vaughan, as Geraldine came up. "Ah! Mr.
Amphlett! When did you come?"

"This morning," said Arthur, in his
sulkiest tone.

Miss Vaughan was struck by his unusual
tone and manner, and put up her eye-glass;
looking from him to Geraldine, in that most
graceful, affected, and imperturbable way of
hers, which would have made an excitable
person angry.

"Some family business on hand, I see,"
she then said. "I am in the way."

"No, if you please, Miss Vaughan," said
Geraldine, quickly. "You are necessary here;
you also, cousin Henry."

Miss Vaughan made an almost imperceptible
movement with her eyebrows, and
slightly bowed. Cousin Hal flung back his
head, smoothed his moustache, showed his
white teeth, and laughed out, "very happy;"
but not in quite so confident and merry
a voice as usual. Then they all passed
through the hall into the library, where
Mrs. Amphlett usually sat in the morning.
She knew what was coming as soon as they
entered in such a strange phalanx. She was
pale, and her face looked harder and sterner
than ever, with even more than the old fire
of secret passion in her fierce eyes. But, for
the first time, Geraldine did not quail before
them. Mrs. Amphlett felt that the sceptre
of her power was falling from her hand.

"What is all this, young lady?" she
asked, as Geraldine came near to the table,
in advance of the rest. "What is the meaning
of the ridiculous air you have assumed
this morning? Can you explain this comedy?"
she said, turning to Miss Vaughan.

"Ma foi, non!" replied that lady, gathering
up her riding skirt, and seating herself
with singular grace on the sofa, flirting open
her little French lorgnon, and watching the
party as steadily as if she were the audience
and they actors on the stage.

"It means," began Geraldine, her voice
slightly trembling, but from agitation, not
timidity; "that you have written to my
husband letters concerning me, which it is
due to myself to demand—demand——" she
repeated, "an explanation of, before those
whom you have quoted as witnesses and
authorities."

"Good heavens, Arthur! how can you
suffer this low-minded young person to
degrade you—a gentleman—into complicity
with anything so vulgar and improper as