against me,
too?"

Wishing to draw from him just how much of the baseness of Cora he
believed in, or suspected, she dropped her voice and asked, in assumed
surprise: "Is it possible that you believe some one to be plotting
against you?"

"Is it _possible_! How else could I be kept shut up a prisoner in my
own house?"

The girl seemed to ponder. "Who is your enemy?" she asked.

"Every one in this house."

"What! Surely not your wife?"

"I'm not so certain of that."

"But she, too, has been sick."

"Have they locked _her_ up?" snapped he.

Madeline smiled. "Well, not exactly; she is not allowed much liberty,
though."

"Why won't she come and see me?"

"Mercy! She is too delicate."

"Seems to me you are well informed for one so lately arrived."

"I _am_ well informed, Mr. Arthur. But I am not a late arrival."

"What do you mean?" sullenly.

"Just what I say," with an odd laugh. "I have been in this house since
you were first put in these rooms."

He sat like one stupefied. At last he sprang up and fairly yelled, "In
the fiend's name, explain this chicanery. Why are you here? Who is
keeping me a prisoner, and wherefore? Is it _you_, you little virago?"

"Softly, step-papa; one thing at a time. I am here because _you_ are
here," she said in a voice of unruffled calm. "Who is keeping you a
prisoner, you ask? I am."

Once more he seemed on the point of giving way to a paroxysm of rage,
but controlled himself and said, sullenly:

"I suppose I may thank you for my imprisonment from first to last."

"You may thank me if you choose, but it will be bestowing your
gratitude upon the wrong party. I did not lock you up. I simply
permitted it."

"And why have you leagued with my wife--curse her--to shut me up like
a thief?"

"Why?" her voice rising in angry scorn, "Do you ask me _why_? Why did
you make my mother almost a prisoner in her own home? Why did you
crush her in life, and blaspheme her in death? Why did you drive her
daughter from the home that was hers, to escape from your cruelty,
your insults, your avarice? John Arthur, how dare you ask me _why_ you
are here!"

Again the flashing eye, the ringing, wrathful voice, the white,
uplifted hand. They menaced him again, as on that June evening when
she had defied him and then fled out into the darkness, not to return,
save in dreams, until now.

Again he felt a thrill of terror, and he sat before her mute and
cowering. At last he found voice to sa