at him, and her gentle grey eyes flashed. "You are never to
know about it from me," she said.

He bowed, and immediately turned the conversation.

A fortnight had nearly gone by, and the guests now felt themselves
thoroughly at home at Aylmer's Court, when late one afternoon the
telegraph-boy was seen coming down the avenue. He met Trevor and asked
him immediately if Miss Keys were at home. Trevor replied that he did
not know where Miss Keys was. It turned out that she had been away for
several hours. Trevor consented to take charge of the telegram. As no
answer was possible, the boy departed on his way.

Bertha had gone to see an old lady for Mrs. Aylmer, and did not come
home until it was time to dress for dinner. It was quite late, for they
dined at a fashionable hour. The telegram was lying on the hall table.
She saw that it was addressed to herself, started, for she did not often
receive telegrams, and tore it open. Its contents certainly were the
reverse of reassuring. If Florence appeared on the scene now, what
incalculable mischief she might effect! How could she, Bertha, stop the
headstrong girl? She glanced at the clock and stamped her foot with
impatience. The little telegraph-office in the nearest village had been
closed for the last hour and a half. It would be impossible, except by
going by train to the nearest town, to send off a telegram that night.

Bertha went up to her room, feeling intensely uncomfortable. In spite of
all her efforts, she could scarcely maintain conversation during the
evening which followed.

In the course of that evening Trevor asked her if she had received her
telegram.

"It came two or three hours ago," he said; "the messenger wanted to wait
for an answer, but I knew there was no use in that, as you would not be
home until late. I hope you have had no bad news."

"Irritating news," she replied, in a whisper; "pray don't speak of it to
the others. I don't want it mentioned that I have had a telegram."

He glanced at her, and slightly raised his brows. She saw that he was
disturbed, and that a sort of suspicion was stealing over him. She came
nearer, and by way of looking over the illustrated paper which he was
glancing through, said, in a very low voice: "It was from Florence
Aylmer. She has got herself into a fresh scrape, I am afraid."

He threw back his head with an impatient movement.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, but if you wish to do her a good turn you will n