a statue, but her voice, when she spoke, was sufficiently
gentle.

"Mr. Orcutt," was her answer, "I have told you. I have a call elsewhere
which must be attended to. I do not leave your house; I merely go to
Buffalo for a few days."

But he could not believe this short statement of her intentions. In the
light of these new fears of his, this talk of Buffalo, and a call there,
looked to him like the merest subterfuge. Yet her gentle tone was not
without its effect, and his voice visibly softened as he said:

"You are intending, then, to return?"

Her reply was prefaced by a glance of amazement.

"Of course," she responded at last. "Is not this my home?"

Something in the way she said this carried a ray of hope to his heart.
Taking her hand in his, he looked at her long and searchingly.

"Imogene!" he exclaimed, "there is something serious weighing upon your
heart. What is it? Will you not make me the confidant of your troubles?
Tell me what has made such a change in you since--since noon, and its
dreadful event."

But her expression did not soften, and her manner became even more
reserved than before.

[Illustration: "Taking her hand in his, he looked at her long and
searchingly. 'Imogene,' he exclaimed, 'there is something weighing on
your heart.'"--(Page 58.)]

"I have not any thing to tell," said she.

"Not any thing?" he repeated.

"Not any thing."

Dropping her hand, he communed a moment with himself. That a secret of
possible consequence lay between them he could not doubt. That it had
reference to and involved the crime of the morning, he was equally sure.
But how was he to make her acknowledge it? How was he to reach her mind
and determine its secrets without alarming her dignity or wounding her
heart?

To press her with questions seemed impossible. Even if he could have
found words with which to formulate his fears, her firm, set face, and
steady, unrelenting eye, assured him only too plainly that the attempt
would be met by failure, if it did not bring upon him her scorn and
contempt. No; some other method must be found; some way that would
completely and at once ease his mind of a terrible weight, and yet
involve no risk to the love that had now become the greatest necessity
of his existence. But what way? With all his acumen and knowledge of the
world, he could think of but one. He would ask her hand in
marriage--aye, at this very moment--and from the tenor of her reply
judge of the nature