sorrow-stricken, as if they had been the
accused, and not the accusers.

Doctor Brown shrank from meeting Crawford's
eye, as the one took his place in the
witness box, the other in the dock. Yet
Crawford was trying— Margaret was sure of
this— to catch his master's attention.  Failing
that, he looked at Margaret with an expression
she could not fathom. Indeed the whole
character of his face was changed. Instead
of the calm smooth look of attentive obedience
he had assumed an insolent, threatening
expression of defiance; smiling occasionally
in a most unpleasant manner as Doctor
Brown spoke of the bureau and its contents.
He was remanded for a week, but, the evidence
as yet being far from conclusive, bail
for his appearance was taken. This bail was
offered by his brother, a respectable tradesman
well known in his neighbourhood, and
to whom Crawford had sent on his arrest.

So Crawford was at large again, much to
Christie's dismay; who took off her Sunday
clothes on her return home with a heavy
heart, hoping rather than trusting that they
should not all be murdered in their beds
before the week was out. It must be confessed
Margaret herself was not entirely free
from fears of Crawford's vengeance; his eyes
had looked so maliciously and vindictively at
her and at her husband as they gave their
evidence.

But his absence in the household gave
Margaret enough to do to prevent her dwelling
on foolish fears. His being away made a
terrible blank in their daily comfort, which
neither Margaret nor Christie—exert
themselves as they would—could fill up; and it
was the more necessary that all should go
on smoothly, as Doctor Brown's nerves had
received such a shock at the discovery of the
guilt of his favourite trusted servant, that
Margaret was led at times to apprehend a
serious illness. He would pace about the
room at night when he thought she was
asleep, moaning to himself— would require
the utmost persuasion to induce him to go
out and see his patients. He was worse than
ever after consulting the lawyer whom he
had employed to conduct the prosecution.
There was, as Margaret was brought unwillingly
to perceive, some mystery in the case;
for he eagerly took his letters from the post,
going to the door as soon as he heard the
knock, and concealing their directions from
her. As the week passed away his nervous
misery still increased.

One evening— the candles were not lighted
—he was sitting over the fire in a listless
attitude, resting his head on his hand, and
that supported on his knee, Margaret
determined to try an experiment, to see if she
could not probe, and find out the nature of
the sore that he hid with such constant care.
She took a stool and sate down at his feet,
taking his hand in hers.

"Listen, dearest James, to an old story I
once heard. It may interest you. There
were once two orphans, boy and girl in their
hearts, though they were a young man and
young woman in years. They were not
brother and sister, and by and by they fell
in love; just in the same fond silly way you
and I did, you remember. Well, the girl
was amongst her own people, but the boy
was far away from his, if indeed he had any
alive. But the girl loved him so dearly for
himself that sometimes she thought she was
glad that he had no one to care for him but
just her alone. Her friends did not like him
as much as she did; for perhaps they were
wise, grave, cold people, and she, I daresay,
was very foolish. And they did not like her
marrying the boy; which was just stupidity
in them, for they had not a word to say
against him.  But, about a week before the
marriage day was fixed, they thought they
had found out something—my darling love,
don't take away your hand— don't tremble
so, only just listen!  Her aunt came to her
and said: 'Child, you must give up your
lover: his father was tempted, and sinned,
and if he is now alive he is a transported
convict. The marriage cannot take place.'
But the girl stood up and said: 'If he has
known this great sorrow and shame he needs
my love all the more. I will not leave him,
nor forsake him, but love him all the better.
And I charge you, aunt, as you hope to
receive a blessing for doing as you would be
done by, that you tell no one!'  I really
think that girl awed her aunt in some strange
way into secrecy. But, when she was left
alone she cried long and sadly, to think
what a shadow rested on the heart she
loved so dearly, and she meant to strive
to lighten the life, and to conceal for ever
that she had heard of the burden; but now
she thinks—O, my husband! how you must
have suffered— " as he bent down his head
on her shoulder and cried terrible man's
tears.

"God be thanked!" he said at length.
"You know all, and you do not shrink from
me. O, what a miserable, deceitful coward I
have been!  Suffered!  Yes—suffered enough
to drive me mad, and if I had but been brave,
I might have been spared all this long twelve-
months of agony.  But it is right I should
have been punished.  And you knew it even
before we were married, when you might
have drawn back!"

"I could not: you would not have broken
off your engagement with me, would you,
under the like circumstances, if our cases
had been reversed?"

"I do not know. Perhaps I might, for I
am not so brave, so good, so strong as you,
my Margaret. How could I be?  Let me
tell you more:  We wandered about, my
mother and I, thankful that our name was
such a common one, but shrinking from every
allusion— in a way which no one can
understand, who has not been conscious of an