s an infringement of contract, as I suppose you know," said
Caspar, smiling persistently. "But it does not matter very much. What
did 'mamma' say to you?"

"I--don't--know," murmured Lesley, confused by the question. "Nothing
very much."

"Nothing. Ah, I know what that means." He turned away from her, and,
sitting down, leaned his elbows upon a table, and played with his beard.
"It was useless, Lesley," he said, quietly, after a few minutes'
silence. "Your mother is the last person whose sympathies will be
enlisted on my side."

Lesley tried to speak but suddenly felt her voice fail her; so instead
of speaking she knelt down by her father, leaned her head upon his
shoulder, and burst into very heartfelt tears.

"Little one," said Caspar, "I'm afraid we have both got ourselves into a
mess."

It did not sound comforting, but Lesley stayed her tears to listen.

"I have been talking to Grierson," her father continued, "and we have
agreed that there must be no suppression of the truth. My dislike to
Oliver Trent has been commented on already, and I must give a reason for
it. Lesley, my dear, you will have to contribute your own evidence as to
the reason."

Lesley looked up with terrified, wide-open eyes. "Do you mean that I
shall have to say----"

"You will have to go into the witness-box and tell what you know, or
rather answer the questions that are asked you."

"But will that be--best--for you?" She put the question with some
difficulty.

"That is not the point. What we have to do is to tell the truth, and
leave the result to others."

"--To God?" Lesley interposed, almost involuntarily. Caspar Brooke's lip
moved with a grave smile.

"Well, yes, to God if you will have it so--we use different terms, but
perhaps we have the same meaning. We must at any rate leave the result
to the working of various laws which we cannot control, and to fight
against these laws of nature is wrong-doing--or sin. Therefore, Lesley,
you will have to tell the truth, whether it may seem to be for my good
or my harm."

She glanced at him rather piteously, and her eyes filled with tears.
Aunt Sophy's words recurred to her mind; but they seemed feeble and
futile in the light of his courage and steadfastness. Aunt Sophy had
been wrong--so much was clear to Lesley; and truth was best under all
possible circumstances.

"It is for Ethel I am sorry," she murmured.

"Yes, poor Ethel. It is true then--what that woman said--that Oliver