"Sit down, Hetty, and keep yourself quiet," said Mrs. Armitage.

Her manner had completely changed. A stealthy, fearful look crept into her face. She went on tiptoe to the door to assure herself over again that it was locked. She then approached the window, shut it, fastened it, and drew a heavy moreen curtain across it.

"When one has secrets," she said, "it is best to be certain there are no eavesdroppers anywhere."

She then lit a candle and placed it on the centre of the little table.

Having done this, she seated herself—she didn't care to look at Hetty. She felt as if in a sort of way she had committed the murder herself. The knowledge of the truth impressed her so deeply that she did not care to encounter any eyes for a few minutes.

"Aunt Fanny, why don't you speak to me?" asked the girl at last.

"You are quite sure, child, that you have told me the truth?" said Mrs. Armitage then.

"Yes—it is the truth—is it likely that I could invent anything so fearful?"

"No, it ain't likely," replied the elder woman, "but I don't intend to trust just to the mere word of a slip of a giddy girl like you. You must swear it—is there a Bible in the room?"

"Oh, don't, Aunt, I wish you wouldn't."

"Stop that silly whining of yours, Hetty; what do your wishes matter one way or the other? If you've told me the truth an awful thing has happened, but I won't stir in the matter until I know it's gospel truth. Yes, there's your Testament—the Testament will do. Now, Hetty Armitage, hold this book in your hand, and say before God in heaven that you saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere. Kiss the book, and tell the truth if you don't want to lose your soul."

Hetty trembled from head to foot. Her nature was impressionable—the hour—the terrible excitement she had just lived through—the solemn, frightened expression of her aunt's face, irritated her nerves to the last extent. She had the utmost difficulty in keeping herself from screaming aloud.

"What do you want me to do?" she said, holding the Testament between her limp fingers.

"Say these words: 'I, Hetty Armitage, saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain last night. This is the truth, so help me God.'"

"I, Hetty Armitage, saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain last night. This is the truth, so help me God," repeated Hetty, in a mechanical voice.

"Kiss the Book now, child," said the aunt

Hetty raised it to her lips.

"Give me the Testament."

Mrs. Armitage took it in her hands.

"Aunt Fanny, what in the world do you mean to do now?" said the girl.

"You are witness, Hetty; you are witness to what I mean to do. It is all for the sake of the Family. What are poor folks like us and our consciences, and our secrets, compared to the Family? This book has not done its work yet. Now I am going to take an oath on the Testament. I, Frances Armitage, swear by the God above, and the Bible He has given us, that I will never tell to mortal man the truth about this murder."

Mrs. Armitage finished her words by pressing the Testament to her lips.

"Now you swear," she said, giving the book back again to her niece.

Hetty did so. Her voice came out in broken sobs. Mrs. Armitage replaced the Testament on the top shelf of Hetty's little bookcase.

"There," she said, wiping her brow, "that's done. You saw the murder committed; you and I have sworn that we'll never tell what we know. We needn't talk of it any more. Another man will swing for it. Let him swing. He is a nice fellow, too. He showed me the photograph of his mother one day. She had white hair and eyes like his; she looked like a lady every inch of her. Mr. Everett said, 'I am her only child, Mrs. Armitage; I'm all she has got.' He had a pleasant smile—wonderful, and a good face. Poor lad, if it wasn't the Family I had to be true to I wouldn't let him swing. They say downstairs that the circumstantial evidence is black against him."

"Perhaps, after all, they cannot convict him, Aunt."

"What do you know about it? I say they can and will, but don't let us talk of it any more. The one thing you and I have to do is to be true to the Family. There's not a second thought to be given to the matter. Sit down, Hetty; don't keep hovering about like that. I think I had better send you away from home; only I forgot, you are sure to be called upon as a witness. You must see that your face doesn't betray you when you're cross-examined."

"No, it won't," said the girl. "I've got you to help me now. I can talk about it sometimes, and it won't lie so heavily on my heart. Aunt Fanny, do you really think Mr. Awdrey forgets?"

"Do I think it? I know it. I don't trouble to think about what I know. It's in their blood, I tell you. The things they ought to remember are wiped out of their brains as clean as if you washed a slate after using it. My mother was cook in the Family, and her mother and her mother before her again. We are Perrys, and the Perrys had always a turn for cooking. We've cooked the dinner up at the Court for close on a hundred years. Don't you suppose I know their ways by this time? Oh, I could tell you of fearful things. There have been dark deeds done before now, and the men who did them had no more memory of their own sin than if they were babies of a month old. There was a Squire—two generations back he was—my grandmother knew him—and he had a son. The mother was—! but there! where's the use of going into that. The mother died raving mad, and the Squire knew no more what he had done than the babe unborn. Folks call it the curse of God. It's an awful doom, and it always comes on just as it has fallen on the young Squire. There comes a fit of passion—a desperate deed is done or a desperate sorrow is met, and all is blank. They wither up afterward just as if the drought was in them. He'll die young, the young Squire will, just like his forefathers. What's the good of crying, Hetty? Crying won't save him—he'll die young. Blood for blood. God will require that young man's blood at his hands. He can't escape—it's in his race; but at least he shan't hang for it—if you and I can keep him from the gallows. Hetty, put your hand in mine and tell me all over again what you saw."

"I can't bear to go over it again, Aunt Fanny—it seems burnt into me like fire. I can think of nothing else—I can think of no face but Mr. Awdrey's—I can only remember the look on his face when he bent over the man he had killed. I saw his face just for a minute by the light of the match, and I never could have believed that human face could have looked like that before. It was old—like the face of an old man. But I met him this evening, Aunt Fanny, and he had forgotten all about it, and he was jolly and happy, and they say he was seen with Miss Douglas to-day. The family had a picnic on the Plain, and Miss Douglas was there, with her uncle, Sir John Cuthbert, and there were a lot of other young ladies. Mr. Awdrey went back to Cuthbertstown with Miss Douglas. It was when he was returning to the Court I met him. All the world knows he worships the ground she walks on. I suppose he'll marry her by and by, Aunt—he seemed so happy and contented to-night."

"I suppose he will marry her, child—that is the best thing that could happen to him, and she's a nice young lady and his equal in other ways. He's happy, did you say? Maybe he is for a bit, but he's a gone man for all that—nothing, nor no one can keep the doom of his house from him. What are you squeezing my hand for, Hetty?"

"I can't bear to think of the Squire marrying Miss Douglas."

"Stuff and nonsense! What is the Squire to you, except as one of the Family. You'd better mind your station, Hetty, and leave your betters to themselves. If you don't you'll get into awful trouble some day. But now the night is going on, and we've got something to do. Tell me again how that murder was done."

"The Squire ran at Mr. Frere, and the point of his stick ran into Mr. Frere's eye."

"What did he do with the stick?"

"He went to a copse of young alders and thrust it into the middle. Oh, it's safe enough."

"Nothing of the kind—it isn't safe at all. How do you know they won't cut those alders down and find the stick? Mr. Robert's walking-stick is well known—it has a silver plate upon it with his name. Years hence people may come across that stick, and all the county will know at once who it belonged to. Come along, Hetty—you and I have our work to do."

"What is that, Aunt Fanny?"

"Before the morning dawns we must bury that stick where no one will find it."

"Oh, Aunt, don't ask me—I can't go back to the Plain again."

"You can and must—I wouldn't ask you, but I couldn't find the exact spot myself. I'll go down first and have a word with Armitage, and then return to you."

Mrs. Armitage softly unlocked the door of her niece's room, and going first to her own bedroom, washed her ashen face with cold water; she then rubbed it hard with a rough towel to take some of the tell-tale expression out of it. Afterward she stole softly downstairs. Her husband was busy in the taproom. She opened the door, and called his name.

"Armitage, I want you a minute."

"Mercy on us, I thought you were in bed an hour ago, wife," he said. "Why, you do look bad, what's the matter?"

"It isn't me, it's the child—she's hysterical. I've been having no end of a time with her; I came down to say that I'd sleep with Hetty to-night. Good-night, Armitage."

"Good-night," said the man. "I say, wife, though," he called after her, "see that you are up in good time to-morrow."

"Never fear," exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, as she ascended the creaking stairs, "I'll be down and about at six."

She re-entered her niece's bedroom and locked the door.

"How did you get out last night?" she asked.

"Through the window."

"Well, you're a nice one. This is not the time to scold you, however, and you and I have got to go out the same way now. They'll think we are in our bed—let them think it. Come, be quick—show me the way out. It's a goodish step from here to the Plain; we've not a minute to lose, and not a soul must see us going or returning."

Mrs. Armitage was nearly as slender and active as her niece. She accomplished the descent from the window without the least difficulty, and soon she and Hetty were walking quickly in the direction of the Plain—they kept well in the shadow of the road and did not meet a soul the entire way. During that walk neither woman spoke a word to the other. Presently they reached the Plain. Hetty trembled as she stood by the alder copse.

"Keep your courage up," whispered Mrs. Armitage, "we must bury that stick where no one can find it."

"Don't bury it, Aunt Fanny," whispered Hetty. "I have thought of something—there's the pond half a mile away. Let us weight the stick with stones and throw it into the pond."

"That's a good thought, child, we'll do it."