For a moment even the stout-hearted Rector was appalled. But Enid, although she was watching him intently, could not read anything but unfaltering sympathy and ready cheer in the glance that he gave her and the words that rose almost immediately to his tongue.

"Courage! Doctors are very often wrong," he said. "Besides, I do not see why such an ending should be feared, even if there were any constitutional tendency of the kind in your family, which there is not."

"No," said Enid, less timidly than before; "I believe there is not. I have asked."

"Your attacks are only nervous, my dear Miss Vane. The very fact of your having—foolishly, I think—been, told the doctor's theories has made it less possible for you to strive against the malady; and yet you say that it has not made progress lately. You have not been ill in this way for six months?"

"No, not for six months."

"Don't you see that the excitement and fatigue of to-day's expedition, and the sad scene which we have just witnessed, would be likely to increase any ailment of the nervous system? You must not argue anything from what has happened to-day. Forgive me," the Rector broke off to say, with a smile—"I am talking like a doctor to you, and my medical skill is small indeed. It is only large enough to enable me to assure you, Miss Vane, of my conviction that your fears are ungrounded, and that you are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Will you try to take my advice and turn your thoughts away from this unhappy subject?"

"I will try," answered Enid, with rather a bewildered look. "But," she added a moment later, "I thought that I ought to be always on my guard; and one cannot be on one's guard without thinking about the matter."

"Who told you that you ought to be always on your guard?"

"Flossy—I mean Mrs. Vane. She is very kind, and watches me constantly. Oh, I forgot," said the girl, starting to her feet, and clasping her hands before her with a look of wretched nervous terror which went to the Rector's heart—"I forgot—I forgot——"

"What did you forget?" said Evandale, wondering for a moment whether her mind was not unhinged by all that she had passed through that afternoon. Then, touched by her evident distress, he went on more lightly, "I have been forgetting that you will be missed from the Hall by this time, and that the whole country-side will be out after you if we do not go back at once. I will send for a carriage and drive down with you, if you will allow me."

Enid sank back on the sofa and assented listlessly. Mr. Evandale left the room, and sent in his absence a comfortable-looking old housekeeper with wine and biscuits, offers of tea and coffee, and all sorts of medicaments suitable to a young lady who had been faint and unwell—as was only to be expected after witnessing the death of Mrs. Meldreth, that troublesome old person having expired quite suddenly that afternoon when Miss Vane and Mr. Evandale were both at her bedside. Enid was not inclined to accept any of Mrs. Heale's attentions, but, out of sheer dislike to hurting her feelings, she at last accepted a cup of tea, and was glad of the reviving warmth which it brought to her cold and tired limbs. And then Mr. Evandale returned.

"There is no carriage at the inn," he said; "and I am sorry to say, Miss Vane, that I do not possess one that would suit you—I have only a high dog-cart and a kicking mare; so I have taken the liberty of sending down to the Hall and telling Mrs. Vane that you are here; and she will no doubt send a carriage for you. I wrote a little note to her—it was the best thing, I thought, that I could do."

"Yes," said Enid, almost inaudibly. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes, looking as if she felt sick and faint.

Mrs. Heale glided away, in obedience to a nod from her master, and the Rector was once more alone with Enid Vane.

"I hope," he said, with a slight hesitation, which was rather graceful in a man of his commanding stature and singular loftiness of bearing—"I hope, Miss Vane, you will not think that I have been intrusive when I tell you that I entreated Sabina Meldreth to confess anything that might weigh upon her conscience, as her mother had confessed to you."

A great wave of crimson suddenly passed over Enid's pallid cheeks and brow. She raised a pair of startled eyes to the Rector's' face, and then said quickly—

"Did she tell you?"

"No, Miss Vane, she did not."

"Then will you promise me," said Enid, with sudden earnestness, "never to ask her again?"

"How can I do that? It may be my duty to ask her for her soul's sake; you would be the last to counsel me to be silent then."

"Oh, but you do not understand! I know now—I know what is weighing on Sabina Meldreth's mind; and I have forgiven her."

"It was a wrong done to you?"

"Yes—to me."

"And to no one else?" Enid's head drooped.

"I don't know—I can't tell. I must think it over."

"Yes—think and pray," said the Rector gravely but tenderly; "and remember that truth should always prevail."

"I know—I believe it; but it would do more harm than good."

"Miss Vane, if I am indiscreet, I trust you will pardon me. If by any chance this confession has reference to the death of your father, Mr. Sydney Vane, it is your duty to make it known, at any cost to your own feelings."

The girl looked up with an expression of relief."It does not bear on that subject at all, Mr. Evandale."

"I am glad. You will forgive me for alluding to it? A wild fancy crossed my mind that it had something to do with that."

"I shall never forget your kindness," said Enid gratefully.

"And if you are in perplexity—in any trouble—will you trust me to do all for you that is in my power? If you ever want help, you will remember that I am ready—ready for all—all that you might require——"

He never finished his speech, which was perhaps fortunate for him. With Enid's soft eyes, slightly distressed and appealing in expression, looking straight into his own, with the sight before him of her pale, wistful face, the lovely lips which had fallen into so pathetic a curve of weariness and sorrow, how could the Rector be expected to preserve his self-possession? His thoughts and his words became confused; he did not quite know what he was saying, nor whether she heard and understood him aright. He was glad to remember afterwards that the expression of her countenance did not change; he brought neither alarm nor astonishment into her eyes; there were only gentle gratitude and a kind of hopelessness, the meaning of which he could not fathom, in the girl's still raised listening face. But at that very moment a knock came to the door; and half to the Rector's relief, half to his embarrassment, the General himself walked in.

"Ah, thank Heaven, she is here!" were the old man's first words. "We thought she was lost, Mr. Evandale—we did indeed. I met your messenger on the way to the Hall, and sent him on for the carriage. A pretty time you've given us, young lady!" he said, smiling at Enid and pinching her chin, and then grasping the Rector's hand with a look of relief and gratitude which told its own story.

"Miss Vane has been a good deal distressed and upset," said Mr. Evandale. "She was at Mrs. Meldreth's bedside when the old woman died this afternoon, and the scene was naturally very painful. I brought her here that she might rest and recover herself a little before going home."

He wanted to explain and simplify matters for Enid's benefit; he had grasped the fact that her uncle's entrance was making her exceedingly nervous. He put it down to fear of the General's anger, but it afterwards occurred to him that Mrs. Meldreth's confession might, for some reason or other, be the cause of her agitation. Certainly her distress and confusion were at that moment very marked. She had risen from her seat at his entrance, her color changing to crimson and then to dead white more than once during the Rector's speech. It settled at last into a painful pallor, which so impressed the General that he did not even administer the gentle rebuke which he had intended Enid to receive for her infringement of the rules on which her life was based. He could not scold her when she stood before him, pale to the very lips, her eyelids cast down, her hands joined together and nervously trembling, a very embodiment of conscious guilt and shame.

"Bless my soul, she does look upset, and no mistake!" he exclaimed, in his hearty and impulsive way. "Come, my dear—don't be so miserable about it! I daresay you did not know how late it was, and the poor woman could not be left. Yes, I quite understand; and I will explain it all to your aunt. Sit down and rest until the carriage comes, as the Rector does not mind our invasion of his study."

Mr. Evandale made some polite but slightly incoherent rejoinder, to which nobody listened, for the General's attention was at that moment completely monopolised by Enid, who on feeling his arm around her, suddenly hid her white face on his shoulder and burst into tears.

"Oh, uncle," she sobbed, "you are so kind—so good! Forgive me!"

"Forgive you, my dear? There is nothing to forgive!" said the astonished General, in a slightly reproving tone. "Of course I do not like your staying out so late on a winter afternoon, but you need not make such a fuss about it, my child. You must control yourself, control yourself, you know. There, there—don't cry! What will Mr. Evandale think of you? Why, bless me, Evandale has gone! Well, well, you need not cry—I am not angry at all—only stop crying—there's a good girl!"

"Say you forgive me, uncle!" moaned Enid, heedless of his rather disconnected remarks, which certainly had no bearing at all on the dilemma forced upon her by the nature of Mrs. Meldreth's confession."Forgive you, my dear? Why, of course I do! You're a little upset, are you not? But you must not give way like this—it'll never do—never do," said the General, patting her on the back benevolently. "There now—dry your eyes, like a good girl; and I think I hear the carriage in the lane, so we must be going. You've no idea how anxious about you poor dear Flossy has been all the afternoon."

He was pleased to see that her tears were checked. She raised herself from his shoulder and brushed away the salt drops with which her cheeks were wet; but she sobbed no longer, and she stood perfectly still and calm. He was not a man of keen observation; and, if the cold white look which suddenly overspread her countenance had any meaning, it was not one that he was likely to read aright.

A servant brought the intelligence that the carriage was at the door, and shortly afterwards the Rector appeared. He had slipped away when Enid burst into tears, hoping that she might confide to the General what she had refused to confide to him; but a glance at the faces of the two told him that his hopes had not been realised. The kindly complacency which characterised the General's countenance was undisturbed, while Enid's face bore the impress of mingled perplexity and despair. It seemed to Maurice Evandale that each expression would have been changed if Enid had bared her heart to her uncle. He did not know—he could not even guess—what her secret was; but he instinctively detected the presence of trouble, perhaps of danger.

The two men parted very cordially; for the General was deterred from seeing much of the Rector only by Mrs. Vane's dislike of him, and his kindly feeling was all the more effusive because he had so few opportunities of expressing it. Enid took leave of the Rector with a look, a wan little smile which touched him inexpressibly.

"You have part of my secret," it seemed to say. "Help me to bear the burden; I am weak and need your aid." He vowed to himself that he would do all that a man could do—all that she might ever ask. But Enid was quite unconscious of having made that mute appeal.

She lay back in a corner of the carriage, saying she was too tired to talk. The General left her in peace, but took one of her little hands and held it tenderly between his own. He could not imagine why it trembled and fluttered so much, why once it seemed to try to drag itself away. The poor girl must be quite overdone, he thought to himself; she was far too kind, too tender-hearted to go about amongst the village people and witness all their woes; she was not strong enough to do such work—he must speak to Flossy about it. And, while he was thus thinking, the carriage turned in at the park gates and presently halted at the great front-door. The servants came forward to assist the General, who was a little stiff in his joints now and then; and he, in his turn, gave an arm to Enid as she alighted. The old butler looked at her curiously as she entered and stood for a moment, dazed and bewildered, in the hall. Miss Enid was always pale, but he had never seen her look so white and scared. She must be ill, he decided, and especially when she shrank so oddly as he deferentially mentioned his mistress' name.

"My mistress hoped that you would come to her sitting room as soon as you arrived, ma'am," he said.

She made a strange answer.

"No, no—I cannot—I cannot see her to-night!"

The General was instantly at her side.

"Enid, my dear, what do you mean? Your aunt wants to see you. She won't be vexed with you—I'll make it all right with her," he added, in a lower tone. "She has been terribly anxious about you. Come—I will take you to her room."

"Not just now, uncle—not to-night," said the girl, in a tone of mingled pain and dread. "I—I can't bear it—I am ill—I must be alone now!"

"My dear child, you must go to bed and rest. I'll explain it all to Flossy. She will come to see you."

"No, no—I can't see any one! Forgive me, uncle; I hardly know what I am saying or doing. I shall be better to-morrow. Till then—till then at least I must be left in peace!"

She broke from his detaining hand with something so like violence, that the General looked after her in wonder as she ran up-stairs.

"She must be ill indeed!" he murmured thoughtfully to himself, as he wended his way to his wife's boudoir, to make his report to Flossy.

Meanwhile Enid's progress up-stairs was barred for a moment by her little playmate and scholar, Dick, who ran out of his nursery to greet her with a cry of joy. To his surprise and mortification, cousin Enid did not stop to kiss him—did not even give him a pleasant word or smile. With a stifled cry she disengaged her frock from his hand, breaking from him as she had broken from the General just before, and sped away to her own room. He heard her turn the key in her door, and, for the first time realising the enormity of the woe that had come upon him—the unprecedented fact that cousin Enid had been unkind—he lifted up his voice and bursted into a storm of sobs, which would at any ordinary time have brought her instantly to his side to comfort and caress.

But this time Enid either did not hear or did not heed. She was crouching down by the side of her bed, with her face hidden in the coverlet, and her hands pressed over her ears, as if to exclude all sound of the world without; and between the difficult passionate sobs by which her whole frame was shaken, one phrase escaped from her lips from time to time—a phrase which would have been unintelligible enough to an ordinary hearer, but would have recalled a long and shameful story to the minds of Florence Vane and one other woman in the world.

"Sabina Meldreth's child!" she muttered to herself not knowing what she said. "How can I bear it? Oh, my poor uncle! Sabina Meldreth's child!"