Miss Vane's welcome of her niece was dashed by amazement.

"Why, good gracious, child," she said, "what have you come at this hour of the day for? I'm delighted to see you; but I never heard of such a thing! Arriving at nine o'clock in the morning from Beechfield, especially after all the accounts I have heard of your health! You look fit to faint as it is!"

"I am tired," said Enid, with a little smile.

She sat down in Miss Vane's pretty dining-room, where her aunt was seated at breakfast, and began to take off her gloves. Parker had retired into the lower regions of the house, and the two ladies were alone.

"I won't hear anything until you have had some coffee," said Miss Vane, in her quick decisive way. "Get a little color into those pale cheeks, my dear, before you begin to talk! There—drink your coffee! Not a bad plan, after all, to start before the heat of the day comes on, only it is a wonderfully energetic proceeding! Have you come to shop, or are you anxious about Hubert? I went to his rooms the other day and saw him. He is weak; but he is quite sensible now, you know."

"Who was there?" said Enid, setting down her cup with a new color in her cheeks.

Miss Vane looked at her sharply.

"Oh, the nurse of course—a Beechfield woman, I believe, recommended by Florence! I saw no one else, not even the Jenkinses, who, I hear, have been most devoted to him in his illness."

Enid dropped her eyes. She did not care just then to ask any questions about Cynthia West. If Miss Vane knew the story, she evidently considered it unfit for Enid's ears.

"And now, my dear, what brings you to town," said aunt Leo briskly, when the meal was ended, and Enid had been installed on a comfortable sofa, where she was ordered to "lie still and rest;" "and how did you induce Richard and Flossy to let you come?"

"I ought perhaps to have told you as soon as I came in, aunt Leo," said Enid, sitting up, "that nobody knew—that, in fact, I have run away from Beechfield, and that I never, never can go back!"

"Oh," said Miss Vane, "that's rather sudden, is it not? But I suppose you have a reason?"

"Yes, aunt Leo, but one which—at present—I cannot tell."

"Cannot tell, Enid, my dear?"

"Not just yet—not until I have consulted some one else."

"Oh, Hubert, I suppose?"

"No," said Enid, blushing and holding down her head—"not Hubert."

Miss Vane put up her gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and inspected her for a minute or two.

"You look as if you had been worried out of your life!" she said. "You are as thin as a thread-paper! Well, you will not be worried here, my child. You can stay as long as you like, and tell me everything or nothing, as you please. One thing I will say—I suppose Flossy is at the bottom of it all?"

"Yes, aunt Leo."

"That accounts for everything. Flossy never could be trusted. Did she want you to be engaged to Hubert?"

"I think so—at first. Now I do not know."

"I suppose they badgered you into it?" said Miss Vane thoughtfully. "Are you going on with it?"—in her usual abrupt tone.

"With the engagement, aunt Leo? Oh, no!"

"Come—that's a good thing!" said aunt Leo briskly. "For I don't think Hubert is quite worthy of you, my dear. He has disappointed me rather. Well, I won't bother you with any more questions, especially as I have a visitor coming at ten o'clock—a young parson from the country who has written to request an interview. There's the bell—I suppose he has arrived. Begging, I expect! I told Hodges——Why, he's showing the man in here! Hodges——"

But it was too late. Hodges always obeyed his mistress to the letter; and his mistress, thinking she would be alone, had ordered "the parson" to be shown into the dining-room. The presence of a visitor made no difference in Hodges' opinion. Accordingly, in spite of Miss Vane's signs and protests, he flung the door wide open, and announced, in a stentorian voice, the parson's name—

"Mr. Evandale."

Then Miss Vane—and Hodges too, before he closed the door—beheld a curious sight; for, instead of looking at his hostess, the parson, who was a singularly handsome man, with a band of crape on his arm, made two strides to the sofa, from which Enid, with a low cry of joy, arose and flung herself into his arms.

"My own darling!" exclaimed the man.

"Maurice—dearest Maurice!" the girl rejoined; and then she burst out crying upon his shoulder; and he kissed her and called her fond names in entire oblivion of Miss Vane's stately presence.

The old lady was both scandalised and offended by these proceedings. Her sharp eyes looked brighter and her rather prominent nose more hawk-like than ever as she made her voice heard at last.

"I should like some explanation of this extraordinary behavior!" she said; with asperity. "Sir, I have not the honor of knowing you! Enid, what does this mean?"

"I am the Rector of Beechfield," said Mr. Evandale. "I most heartily beg your pardon, Miss Vane, for the way in which I have introduced myself to you! I wrote to ask if I might see you, because I know what a friend you have always been to Enid, and I wanted to see you myself and tell you how Enid and I had come to understand each other; but, when I saw my darling here—safe with you—I was so much taken by surprise——"

"I am taken by surprise too," said Miss Vane grimly. "Pray, sir, does the General know of your mutual understanding?"

"No, aunt Leo; and that is one reason why I came to you," said Enid, abandoning Maurice Evandale and bestowing an embrace upon her aunt. "You know, I had just told you that I was not engaged to Hubert."

"You gave up Hubert for this gentleman, did you?"

"I think, aunt Leo, that Hubert gave me up first;" and Enid raised her head and looked earnestly into her aunt's eyes, which fell before that serious candid gaze.

"Well, my dear, well—and was it for this that you came to me?"

Miss Vane's voice was gentler now; and Mr. Evandale took advantage of the opportunity afforded him to pour out the story of his love for Enid—of his certainty that she was not happy, and his endeavor to win her confidence. He went on to say that he had been in Yorkshire attending his father's funeral and settling his affairs for the last few days, and that it had occurred to him to call on Miss Vane—of whom he had so often heard!—on his way through London to Beechfield. He had meant to tell her of Enid's unhappiness and of his attachment to her, and to ask Miss Vane's interest and help; and it was the greatest possible surprise to him to find Enid in the room when he entered it.

"What did you mean by saying that she was safe here?" said Miss Vane at this point. "Safe with me, you said."

Maurice looked at the girl.

"I have told aunt Leo nothing yet," she said. "And, oh, dear aunt Leo, you won't be vexed, will you, if I may speak to Maurice just for five minutes first? Because indeed I am so puzzled that I do not know what to do."Miss Vane subdued a rising inclination to anger, and did her best to smile.

"Ah, well, I know what you young people are!" she said good-humoredly. "I suppose I shall be taken into your secrets by-and-by."

Enid kissed her cheek.

"If they were our secrets, you should know all about them this very minute," she said; "but they are not ours, dear auntie."

"Flossy's, I suppose?" said Miss Vane rather shortly, as she disengaged herself from Enid's arm and went out of the room. But she was not ill-pleased, although she pretended to feel piqued by the request for a private interview. "He looks like a man to be trusted," she said. "Enid will be happier with him than with Hubert—poor Hubert, poor miserable, deluded boy! As for Flossy, I cannot think of her without a shudder. Heaven knows what she has done, but she has most certainly driven Enid out of the house by her conduct! I hope it is nothing very seriously wrong."

At that moment a telegram was put into Miss Vane's hands. It was from the General.

It seemed long to Miss Vane before she was summoned to the promised conference with Enid and Mr. Evandale. Here a great shock awaited her. Enid had told her whole story to Maurice, and he had said that, while the midnight interview between Enid and Mrs. Vane might be kept secret—as nothing could absolutely be proved respecting Flossy's sinister designs on Enid's life or health—the confession that Mrs. Meldreth had made to Enid in her last moments should be made known. Enid was however still reluctant; and Miss Vane was brought in chiefly to give her advice, and thus to settle the question.

"Well," she said, looking keenly from one to the other, as she sat beside Enid's sofa and Mr. Evandale stood before her, "I think I may safely say that it's not the money that either of you cares about."

"No, indeed!" The voices were unanimous.

"Neither money nor lands matter very much to you. But you"—to Evandale—"hate the deceit; and you, on the other hand"—turning to Enid—"are fond of the poor child, who, I must say, has been treated about as badly as any of you. Isn't that the case?"

"Yes, aunt Leo."

"And what's to be done with him when the truth is made known? Is he to be made over to his rightful owner—Sabina Meldreth?"

Enid and Mr. Evandale looked at each other.

"No," said the Rector, at length—"certainly not! We would bring him up ourselves, if need be; and Enid would be to him all that his own mother and Mrs. Vane have failed to be."

"And he should never suffer," said Enid, with tears in her eyes. "I love him as if he were my own little brother, aunt Leo. He should have all the property—as far as I am concerned—if Maurice thought it right."

"Yes, certainly, if the General chose to leave it to him; but the General ought to know," said Mr. Evandale decisively. "I do not see how we can be parties to a deception any longer."

"It is a very hard position for all of us," said Miss Vane. "As for me, I am most seriously concerned for my brother. Have you thought what a terrible shock you are preparing for him?"

Evandale looked grave and did not answer.

"He is devotedly fond of his wife and of the child. To tell him that Florence is a liar and a cheat—that she has practised a deception upon him for many years, in order to gain position and a good income for herself as the mother of his son—above all, to tell him that the boy is not his son at all—do you think that he will survive it? Dare you take upon yourselves the responsibility of shortening his days in that way? I must confess that in your places I should hold my tongue; because it does not seem to have occurred to you that, after all, old Mrs. Meldreth may not have been speaking the truth."

"I never thought of that," said Enid.

"If you had seen the woman herself, Miss Vane, you would have been convinced of her sincerity," said the Rector.

"Possibly. But only you two were there. The General will probably refuse to listen to Enid's testimony, and will fume himself into an apoplectic fit when he hears that she has any to give. You, Mr. Evandale, did not hear the woman's communication at all. Suppose you kill the General by the news—do you want to take the matter into court? Is Enid to stand up and tell her experiences to a pack of lawyers, and hear the world say that she has done it to get the estate for herself? You could not bear it, Enid, my child! You would lose your head and contradict yourself; and Flossy would brazen it out and be the heroine of the day; and Mr. Evandale would be ruined in costs."

"I don't mind that, so long as the truth prevails," said Mr. Evandale. "I do not want the money—neither does Enid; we would sooner endow an hospital with it or give it to little Dick than keep it if gained under such auspices. But it is hard to see Mrs. Vane—whom I firmly believe to be guilty of fraud as well as of an attempt upon my darling's life—triumphant in wrong-doing."

"Well, nobody ought to know better than you, Mr. Evandale, that the wicked flourish like the green bay-tree," said Miss Vane drily; "and I don't see that it is our part to destroy them."

"Aunt Leo, you are making us feel ourselves horrid!" said Enid from the cushions amongst which her aunt had insisted on installing her. "We do not want to punish her, or to make dear uncle Richard ill, or to turn poor little Dick out of Beechfield."

"Yet it is just those things which you propose doing."

There was a moment's silence. Then the Rector looked at Enid.

"I think we shall have to give it up, Enid, unless we get other evidence."

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Enid, with tears in her eyes. "It was when I felt that it was perhaps my duty to speak that I was so miserable! But, if it would simply make mischief and be of no use, I am only too glad to feel that I may keep silence."

"I'm glad you see it in that light," said Miss Vane briefly. "I want as little as you do, Mr. Evandale, to see Enid kept out of her rightful inheritance; but I am convinced that, if Enid told my brother what she had heard, he would never believe her, that the excitement would make him ill; there would be a family quarrel, and the whole thing would be productive of no good result at all. If we get more evidence, or if one of the guilty parties would confess, why, then it would be a different matter."

"I shall not mind seeing uncle Richard now," said Enid softly.

"But you will not go back to Beechfield?" said Mr. Evandale.

"No, indeed; she'll stay here," Miss Vane replied for her. "She'll stay here until she is married; and I hope that that day may not be far off."

"I hope not," said Maurice fervently. "Do you think that I may speak to the General to-day?"

"I should think so. But what about Hubert Lepel, Enid?"

Enid flushed crimson.

"If there is one thing more than another about which the General is particular, it is the keeping of a promise," continued Miss Vane. "He may say that he will hold you to your word."

"He cannot," Enid answered, with lowered eyelids. "For, if what I have been told is true, Hubert has broken his word to me—and so I am free."

"She must be free; she did not love him," said Maurice Evandale conclusively, as if that statement settled the question.

"Ah, well, if love were all," Miss Vane began, but the opening of the door interrupted her. "What is it, Hodges? Another telegram? Is it the General again, I wonder?"

She tore open the brown envelope with more anxiety than she liked to show; her eyebrows went up, and her mouth compressed itself as she read the words—first to herself, and then to Enid and the Rector. The message was again from the General, and ran as follows—

"Oh, poor little Dick!" said Enid. "And I away from him!"

Miss Vane glanced at the Rector, and read in his eyes what was in her own mind—"If Dick should die, there would be no further perplexity." Then both dropped their eyes guiltily, and hoped that Enid—dear, innocent, loving Enid!—had not guessed what they were thinking."At any rate," said Miss Vane, after a little pause, "you can do nothing now; and it is just as well that we have all resolved to hold our tongues."

And then she went away to write some letters; and Enid was left alone with Maurice Evandale.

"My darling," said her lover, "are you sure that you are content and happy now?"

"Quite sure, Maurice—except that I think—I half think—that I ought not to be married; I shall make such a bad wife to you if I am always ailing and weak."

"But you are not going to be ailing and weak, dearest—you are going to be a strong woman yet. Did you not tell me how you conquered that nervous inclination to give way last night after your interview with Mrs. Vane? And did you not walk to the station and travel up to town in the early morning without doing yourself a particle of harm? Believe me, darling, your ill-health was in great part a figment got up by Mrs. Vane for her own ends. You are perfectly well; and, when we are married, you will be strong too. Do you believe me, Enid?"

"Perfectly."

"And are you sure yet whether you love me or not?"

She smiled, and the color flooded her sweet face. And he, although he knew well enough what she would say, pressed for an answer, and would not be satisfied until it had been put into words.

"Do you love me, Enid? Tell me, darling—'Yes' or 'No'?"

And at last she answered very softly—

"I love you, Maurice, with all my heart and soul!"