well again."

My presentation of the case entirely failed to re-assure my pretty
companion. We went back to the house. Dinner-time came, and the
brothers appeared. Their father spoke to them of their absence from
morning prayers with needless severity, as I thought. They resented the
reproof with needless indignation on their side, and left the room. A
sour smile of satisfaction showed itself on Miss Meadowcroft's thin
lips. She looked at her father; then raised her eyes sadly to the
ceiling, and said, "We can only pray for them, sir."

Naomi disappeared after dinner. When I saw her again, she had some news
for me.

"I have been with Ambrose," she said, "and he has begged my pardon. We
have made it up, Mr. Lefrank. Still--still--"

"Still--_what_, Miss Naomi?"

"He is not like himself, sir. He denies it; but I can't help thinking
he is hiding something from me."

The day wore on; the evening came. I returned to my French novel. But
not even Dumas himself could keep my attention to the story. What else
I was thinking of I cannot say. Why I was out of spirits I am unable to
explain. I wished myself back in England: I took a blind, unreasoning
hatred to Morwick Farm.

Nine o'clock struck; and we all assembled again at supper, with the
exception of John Jago. He was expected back to supper; and we waited