nate entreaty; said
he had nothing to blame; suffered her caresses patiently; but the
impression was given, the deed was done.

While he lived, Captain Rothesay never forgot that night. Nor did
Sybilla; for then she had first seen that cold, stern look, and heard
that altered tone. How many times was it to haunt her afterwards!

CHAPTER V.

Next morning Captain Rothesay and his wife sat together by the fireside,
where she had so often sat alone. Sybilla seemed in high spirits--her
love was ever exuberant in expression--and the moment her husband seemed
serious she sprang on his knee and looked playfully in his face.

"Just as much a child as ever, I see," said Angus Rothesay, with a
rather wintry smile.

And then, looking in his face by daylight, Sybilla had opportunity to
see how changed he was. He had become a grave, middle-aged man. She
could not understand it. He had never told her of any cares, and he was
little more than thirty. She felt almost vexed at him for growing so
old; nay, she even said so, and began to pull out a few grey hairs that
defaced the beauty of his black curls.

"You shall lecture me presently, my dear," said Captain Rothesay. "You
forget that I had two welcomes to receive, and that I have not yet seen
my little girl."

He had not indeed. His eager inquiries after Olive overnight had been
answered by a pretty pout, and several trembling, anxious speeches about
"a wife being dearer than a child." "Baby was asleep, and it was so
very late--he might, surely, wait till morning." To which, though rather
surprised, he assented. A few more caresses, a few more excuses, had
still further delayed the terrible moment; until at last the father's
impatience would no longer be restrained.

"Come, Sybilla, let us go and see our little Olive."

"O Angus!" and the mother turned deadly white.

Captain Rothesay seemed alarmed. "Don't trifle with me, Sybilla--there
is nothing the matter? The child is not ill?"

"No; quite well."

"Then, why cannot Elspie bring her?" and he pulled the bell violently.
The nurse appeared. "My good Elspie, you have kept me waiting quite long
enough; do let me see my little girl."

Elspie gave one glance at the mother, who stood mute and motionless,
clinging to the chair for support. In that glance was less compassion
than a sort of triumphant exultation. When she quitted the room Sybilla
flung herself at her husband's feet. "Angus, Angus, only say you forgive
m