Trent was in love with you?"

"I could not help it, father. I don't think it was my fault. I did not
know till it was too late."

"I am not blaming you, my dear. When I came into the drawing-room that
day--do you remember?--what had happened then? Can you bear to tell me?"

She hid her face on his shoulder as she answered, "He was speaking
foolishly. I think he wanted to--to kiss me.... I was very glad that you
came in."

"Was that the first time?"

"Yes, the first. And I did not even see him again until that Saturday
night, when he found me in the study--and----"

"And asked you to run away with him?"

"Yes. Indeed, I had not led him to think that I would do any such thing,
father. I told him never to speak to me again. If it had not been for
Ethel's sake, I think I should have called someone--but I did not like
to make a disturbance."

"No, dear, no. And you--yourself--_you_ did not care for him?"

"Oh no, no, no!"

"It has been a terrible tangle--and the knot has been cut very rudely,"
said Mr. Brooke, in a musing tone. "Of one thing I am quite certain, we
were not fit to have the care of you, Lesley--your aunt and I. You would
never have been in this position, my poor child, if we had looked after
you."

"It isn't _that_ which troubles me," said Lesley, trying to steady her
voice. "It is--that you have to bear the brunt of it all. If it had not
been for me you would never have been here. It has been my fault!"

"Not your fault, child," said her father. "The fault did not lie with
you, but with that unfortunate young man, for whom I am truly sorry.
Don't be morbid, Lesley; look things straight in the face, and don't
blame yourself unless you are perfectly sure that you deserve to be
blamed."

And there the conference ended, for Miss Brooke arrived at that moment,
and Lesley thought it advisable to leave the choice of a subject of
conversation in her hands. Caspar had many visitors that day, and many
letters of advice and condolence, for few men were blessed--or
cursed--with as many friends as he. Among the letters that reached him
was a note without signature, which he read hastily, and as hastily
concealed when he had read it. This note was written in uneven, crooked
characters, as if the writer's hand had shaken as she wrote, and ran as
follows:--

"I ought not to write, but how can I keep silence? There is nothing that
I am not capable of bearing for my friends. If you will but confide in
me--