will be plenty to eat if we can
find the heart to eat it."

"But your father, my dear?"

"Oh! you need not be afraid. I have got permission to ask you. What do
you think? I actually talked to my father for ten whole minutes
yesterday; he wanted to avoid me when he saw me, but I caught him in a
corner. He took advantage of the opportunity to try to prevent me from
going to see Pigott, but I would not listen to him, so he gave it up.
What did he mean by that? Why did he send her away? What does it all
mean? Oh! Arthur, when will you come back, Arthur?" and, to Mr.
Fraser's infinite distress, she burst into tears.

CHAPTER XLIX

Presentiments are no doubt foolish things, and yet, at the time that
Angela was speaking of hers to Mr. Fraser, a consultation was going on
in a back study at Isleworth that might almost have justified it. The
fire was the only light in the room, and gathered round it, talking
very low, their features thrown alternately into strong light and dark
shadow, were George Caresfoot and Sir John and Lady Bellamy. It was
evident from the strong expression of interest, almost of excitement,
on their faces that they were talking of some matter of great
importance.

Sir John was, as usual, perched on the edge of his chair, rubbing his
dry hands and eliciting occasional sparks in the shape of remarks, but
he was no longer merry; indeed, he looked ill at ease. George, his red
hair all rumpled up, and his long limbs thrust out towards the fire,
spoke scarcely at all, but glued his little bloodshot eyes alternately
on the faces of his companions, and only contributed an occasional
chuckle. But the soul of this witches' gathering was evidently Lady
Bellamy. She was standing up, and energetically detailing some scheme,
the great pupils of her eyes expanding and contracting as the unholy
flame within them rose and fell.

"Then that is settled," she said, at last.

George nodded, Bellamy said nothing.

"I suppose that silence gives consent. Very well, I will take the
first step to-morrow. I do not like Angela Caresfoot, but, upon my
word, I shall be sorry for her before she is twenty-four hours older.
She is made of too fine a material to be sold into such hands as
yours, George Caresfoot."

George looked up menacingly, but said nothing.

"I have often urged you to give this up; now I urge no more--the thing
is done in spirit, it may as well be done in reality. I told yo