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In about twenty minutes the drawing-room door opened, and they came out. I heard George’s voice saying this or something equivalent (afterwards I could not accurately recall the words)–

“Good-night, Mr. Lascelles; I trust our next meeting may be a different one.”

The next sentences on both sides I lost. Edmund seems to have refused to shake hands with Mr. Manners. The last words I heard were George’s half-laughing–

“Next time, Lascelles, I shall not ask for your hand–I shall take it.”

Then the door shut, and Edmund went into his study. An hour later he also went out, and I was left alone once more. I went back into the drawing-room; the rose-leaves were fading on the floor; and on the table lay George Manners’ penknife. It was a new one, that he had been showing to me, and had left behind him. I kissed it and put it in my pocket: then I knelt down by the chair, Nell, and wept till I prayed; and then prayed till I wept again; and then I got up and tidied the room, and got some sewing; and, like other women, sat down with my trouble, waiting for the storm to break.

It broke at eleven o’clock that night, when two men carried the dead body of my brother into his own kitchen–foully murdered.

But when I knelt by the poor body, lying awfully still upon the table; when I kissed the face, which in death had curiously regained the appearance of reason as well as beauty; when I saw and knew that life had certainly gone till the Resurrection:–that was not all. The storm had not fully broken till I turned and saw, standing by the fire, George Manners, with his hands and coat dabbled with blood. I did not speak or scream; but a black horror seemed to settle down like mist upon me. Through it came Mr. Manners’ voice (I had not looked again at him)–

“Miss Dorothy Lascelles, why do you not ask who did it?”

I gave a sharp cry, and one of the labourers who had helped to bring Edmund in said gravely–

“Eh, Master! the less you say the better. God forgive you this night’s work!”

George’s hoarse voice spoke again.

“Do you hear him?” and then it faltered a little–“Dorolice, do you think this?”

It was his pet name for me (he was an Italian scholar), and touched me inexpressibly, and a conviction seized upon me that if he had done it, he would not have dared to appeal to my affection. I tried to clear my mind that I might see the truth, and then I looked up at him. Our eyes met, and we looked at each other for a full minute, and I was content. Oh! there are times when the instinctive trust of one’s heart is, so far more powerful than any proofs or reasons, that faith seems a higher knowledge. I would have pledged ten thousand lives, if I had had them, on the honesty of those eyes, that had led me like a will-o’-the-wisp in the ball-room half a year ago! The new-year’s dance came back on me as I stood there–my ball-dress was in the drawer up-stairs–and now! oh dear! was I going mad?

CHAPTER III.

THE TIME OF TRIAL.

Meanwhile he was waiting for my answer. I stepped forward, intending to take his hand, but the stains drove me back again. Where so much depends upon a right–or a mis-understanding, the only way is to speak the fair truth. I did so; by a sort of forced calm holding back the seething of my brain.

“George, I should like to touch you, but–I cannot! I beg you to forgive the selfishness of my grief–my mind is confused–I shall be better soon. God has sent us a great sorrow, in which I know you are as innocent as I am. I am very sorry–I think that is all.” And I put my hand to my head, where a sharp pain was beginning to throb. Mr. Manners spoke, emphatically–