t is you who have told her,' said Robert, who, after a desperate
effort, had forced all violence from his voice and language. 'Traitor as
you consider me, your secret had not crossed my lips. But no--there is
no time to waste on disputes. Your wife is sinking under neglect; and
her seeing you once more may depend on your not loitering away these
moments.'

'I don't believe it. Canting and tragedy queening. Taking him in! I
know better!' muttered Owen, sullenly, as he moved up the bank.

'O Robin, how can he be so hard?' whispered Phoebe, as she met her
brother's eyes wistfully fixed on her face.

'He is altogether selfish and heartless,' returned Robert, in the same
inaudible voice. 'My Phoebe, give me this one comfort. You never
listened to him?'

'There was nothing to listen to,' said Phoebe, turning her clear,
surprised eyes on him. 'You couldn't think him so bad as that. O Robin,
how silly!'

'What were you doing here?' he asked, holding her arm tight.

'Only Miss Fennimore wanted some Osmunda, and Miss Charlecote sent him to
show me where it grew; because she was talking to Lady Raymond.'

The free simplicity of her look made Robert breathe freely. Charity was
coming back to him.

At the same moment Owen turned, his face flushed, and full of emotion,
but the obduracy gone.

'I may take a long leave! When you see Honor Charlecote, Fulmort--'

'I shall not see her. I am going back with you,' said Robert, instantly
deciding, now that he felt that he could both leave Phoebe, and trust
himself with the offender.

'You think I want to escape!'

'No; but I have duties to return to. Besides, you will find a scene for
which you are little prepared; and which will cost you the more for your
present mood. I may be of use there. Your secret is safe with Phoebe
and me. I promised your wife to keep it, and we will not rob you of the
benefit of free confession.'

'And what is to explain my absence? No, no, the secret is one no longer,
and it has been intolerable enough already,' said Owen, recklessly.
'Poor Honor, it will be a grievous business, and little Phoebe will be a
kind messenger. Won't you, Phoebe? I leave my cause in your hands.'

'But,' faltered Phoebe, 'she should hear who--'

'Simple child, you can't draw inferences. Cilla wouldn't have asked.
Don't you remember her darling at Wrapworth? People shouldn't throw such
splendid women in one's way, especially when they are made of s