If Thorn had done it, would I screen him, or shuffle it
off to Richard Hare? Not so."

Mr. Carlyle felt uncertain and bewildered. That Afy was sincere in what
she said, was but too apparent. He spoke again but Afy had risen from
her chair to leave.

"Locksley was in the wood that evening. Otway Bethel was in it. Could
either of them have been the culprit?"

"No, sir," firmly retorted Afy; "the culprit was Richard Hare; and I'd
say it with my latest breath--I'd say it because I know it--though I
don't choose to say how I know it; time enough when he gets taken."

She quitted the room, leaving Mr. Carlyle in a state of puzzled
bewilderment. Was he to believe Afy, or was he to believe the bygone
assertion of Richard Hare?

CHAPTER XXIX.

A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE.

In one of the comfortable sitting-rooms of East Lynne sat Mr. Carlyle
and his sister, one inclement January night. The contrast within and
without was great. The warm, blazing fire, the handsome carpet on which
it flickered, the exceedingly comfortable arrangement of the furniture,
of the room altogether, and the light of the chandelier, which fell on
all, presented a picture of home peace, though it may not have deserved
the name of luxury. Without, heavy flakes of snow were falling thickly,
flakes as large and nearly as heavy as a crown piece, rendering the
atmosphere so dense and obscure that a man could not see a yard before
him. Mr. Carlyle had driven home in the pony carriage, and the snow had
so settled upon him that Lucy, who happened to see him as he entered the
hall, screamed out laughingly that her papa had turned into a white man.
It was now later in the evening; the children were in bed; the governess
was in her own sitting room--it was not often that Miss Carlyle invited
her to theirs of an evening--and the house was quite. Mr. Carlyle was
deep in the pages of one of the monthly periodicals, and Miss Carlyle
sat on the other side of the fire, grumbling, and grunting, and
sniffling, and choking.

Miss Carlyle was one of your strong-minded ladies, who never
condescended to be ill. Of course, had she been attacked with scarlet
fever, or paralysis, or St. Vitus' dance, she must have given in to the
enemy; but trifling ailments, such as headache, influenza, sore
throat, which other people get, passed her by. Imagine, therefore, her
exasperation at finding her head stuffed up, her chest sore, and her
voice going; in short, at having, f