possible, so that she might not touch them, and her face was very
white and still as Grey commenced the story, which he made as short as
possible, though he dwelt at length upon the life-long remorse of his
grandfather, and the heavy burden which his Aunt Hannah had carried for
years.

At this part of the story, Bessie's face relaxed, and one of the hands,
which had been clasped so tightly together at first, went over to
Hannah's hand, which it took and held until Grey told of the lonely days
and dreary nights passed by the young girl in the old horror-haunted
house, with no one but Rover for her companion. Then the hand went up
with a soft, caressing motion to the face which Grey had once said
looked as if Christ had laid his hands hard upon it, and left their
impress there. It was pallid now, as the face of a corpse, and there
were hard lines about the mouth, which quivered with pain. But, at the
touch of Bessie's soft fingers, the hardness relaxed, and, covering her
eyes, Hannah burst into a paroxysm of weeping.

"Dear auntie," Bessie said, "my auntie, because you are Grey's, how you
must have suffered, and how I wish I could have come to you. There would
have been no terror here for me, because, you see, it was not
premeditated; it was an accident, not a crime, and God, I am sure,
forgave it long ago. No, Grey;" and now she turned to him, and, winding
her arms around his neck, went on: "It is not a disgrace you ask me to
share it is a misfortune, a trouble; and do you think I would shrink
from it a moment--I, who have borne so much that _was_ disgrace?"

He knew she was thinking of her mother, but he said nothing except to
fold her in his arms and kiss her flushed, eager face, while she went
on:

"But who was this man? Where did he live, and had he no friends to make
inquiries for him?"

Grey remembered now that he had simply said, the _peddler_, without
giving the name, and he hastened to say:

"He was Joel Rogers, a Welshman, from Carnarvon, and it was for his
sister Elizabeth, or her heirs, that I was searching, when I first came
to Stoneleigh."

"Oh, Grey!" and Bessie sprang up almost as quickly as she had done when
he spoke to her of murder; "oh, Grey! what if it should be my
great-uncle, whose grave is under the floor? You once told me you were
hunting for Elizabeth Rogers, and I said I would ask Anthony, who knew
everybody for fifty miles around and for a hundred years back. But I
forgot it until aft