rta
appeared from the opposite side. At great inconvenience to herself, she
had complied with his request.

Ethelberta was trembling. She took her brother's hand, and said, 'Is
father, then, gone?'

'Yes,' said Sol. 'I should have been gone likewise, but I thought you
wanted to see me.'

'Of course I did, and him too. Why did you come so mysteriously, and, I
must say, unbecomingly? I am afraid I did wrong in not informing you of
my intention.'

'To yourself you may have. Father would have liked a word with you
before--you did it.'

'You both looked so forbidding that I did not like to stop the carriage
when we passed you. I want to see him on an important matter--his
leaving Mrs. Doncastle's service at once. I am going to write and beg
her to dispense with a notice, which I have no doubt she will do.'

'He's very much upset about you.'

'My secrecy was perhaps an error of judgment,' she said sadly. 'But I
had reasons. Why did you and my father come here at all if you did not
want to see me?'

'We did want to see you up to a certain time.'

'You did not come to prevent my marriage?'

'We wished to see you before the marriage--I can't say more.'

'I thought you might not approve of what I had done,' said Ethelberta
mournfully. 'But a time may come when you will approve.'

'Never.'

'Don't be harsh, Sol. A coronet covers a multitude of sins.'

'A coronet: good Lord--and you my sister! Look at my hand.' Sol
extended his hand. 'Look how my thumb stands out at the root, as if it
were out of joint, and that hard place inside there. Did you ever see
anything so ugly as that hand--a misshaped monster, isn't he? That comes
from the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day and year
after year. If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in
fustian or in broadcloth, folk would look at my hand and say, "That man's
a carpenter." Well now, how can a man, branded with work as I be, be
brother to a viscountess without something being wrong? Of course
there's something wrong in it, or he wouldn't have married you--something
which won't be righted without terrible suffering.'

'No, no,' said she. 'You are mistaken. There is no such wonderful
quality in a title in these days. What I really am is second wife to a
quiet old country nobleman, who has given up society. What more
commonplace? My life will be as simple, even more simple, than it was
before.'

'Berta, you have