doot be the one he's
jilted for _you?_ I see it all--ye can't blind Me--I ha' been a frail
person my ain self, in my time. Hech! he's safe and sound, is the
reprobate. I ha' lookit after a' his little creature-comforts--I'm joost
a fether to him, as well as a fether to you. Trust Bishopriggs--when
puir human nature wants a bit pat on the back, trust Bishopriggs."

While the sage was speaking these comfortable words, Anne was reading
the lines traced on the paper. They were signed by Arnold; and they ran
thus:

"I am in the smoking-room of the inn. It rests with you to say whether I
must stop there. I don't believe Blanche would be jealous. If I knew how
to explain my being at the inn without betraying the confidence which
you and Geoffrey have placed in me, I wouldn't be away from her another
moment. It does grate on me so! At the same time, I don't want to make
your position harder than it is. Think of yourself first. I leave it
in your hands. You have only to say, Wait, by the bearer--and I shall
understand that I am to stay where I am till I hear from you again."

Anne looked up from the message.

"Ask him to wait," she said; "and I will send word to him again."

"Wi' mony loves and kisses," suggested Mr. Bishopriggs, as a necessary
supplement to the message. "Eh! it comes as easy as A. B. C. to a man o'
my experience. Ye can ha' nae better gae-between than yer puir servant
to command, Sawmuel Bishopriggs. I understand ye baith pairfeckly." He
laid his forefinger along his flaming nose, and withdrew.

Without allowing herself to hesitate for an instant, Anne opened the
bedroom door--with the resolution of relieving Arnold from the new
sacrifice imposed on him by owning the truth.

"Is that you?" asked Blanche.

At the sound of her voice, Anne started back guiltily. "I'll be with you
in a moment," she answered, and closed the door again between them.

No! it was not to be done. Something in Blanche's trivial question--or
something, perhaps, in the sight of Blanche's face--roused the
warning instinct in Anne, which silenced her on the very brink of the
disclosure. At the last moment the iron chain of circumstances made
itself felt, binding her without mercy to the hateful, the degrading
deceit. Could she own the truth, about Geoffrey and herself, to Blanche?
and, without owning it, could she explain and justify Arnold's conduct
in joining her privately at Craig Fernie? A shameful confession made to
an innocen