ys Miss Priscilla in a hollow tone.
"Mitson tells me he never lent him that gun. Terence has wilfully
deceived us, his poor aunts, who love him and only desire his good. He
has, I fear, basely mystified us to accomplish his own ends, and has
indeed departed from the precious truth."

"I never said Mitson did lend it to me," says Terence, sullenly: "you
yourself suggested the idea, and I let it slide, that was all."

"All! Is not prevarication only a _mean_ lie? Oh, Terence, I am so
deeply grieved! I know not what to say to you."

The scene is becoming positively tragical. Already a sense of crime of
the blackest and deepest dye is overpowering Terence.

"Whom _did_ you get that gun from, Terence?" asks Miss Priscilla,
sternly.

No answer.

"Now, Terence, be calm," says Miss Penelope. "Sit down now, Terence, and
collect yourself, and don't be untruthful again."

"I have told no lie, aunt," says Terence, indignantly.

"Then tell your good Aunt Priscilla who gave you the gun."

Dead silence.

"Are we to understand that you _won't_ tell us, Terence?" asks Miss
Priscilla, faintly. She is now much the more nervous of the two old
maids.

Terence casts a hasty glance at Monica's white face, and then says,
stoutly,--

"I don't want to tell, and I _won't_!"

"Terence!" exclaims the usually mild Miss Penelope, with great
indignation, and is going to further relieve her mind, no doubt, when
Miss Priscilla, throwing up her hands, checks her.

"Let him alone, Penelope," she says, sadly. "Perhaps he has some good
reason: let us not press him too far. Obduracy is better than falsehood.
Let us go and pray that heaven may soften his heart and grant him a
right understanding."

With this the two old ladies walk slowly and with dignity from the room,
leaving the criminal with his sisters.

Monica bursts into tears and flings her arms round his neck. "You did it
for _me_. I know it!--I saw it in your eyes," she says. "Oh, Terence, I
feel as if it was all my fault."

"Fiddlesticks!" says Mr. Beresford, who is in a boiling rage. "Did you
ever hear anything like her? and all about a paltry thing like that! She
couldn't behave worse if I had been convicted of murder. I'm
convinced"--viciously--"it was all baffled curiosity that got up her
temper. She was _dying_ to know about that gun, and so I was determined
I wouldn't gratify her. A regular old cat, if ever there was one."

"Oh, no! don't speak like that; I am sure the