to her father, she could yet speak his doom with calmness, with
clear intelligence that the sacrifice she was asked to make was
disproportionate to the disaster threatened.

He answered with cold decision.

'It's you who don't know me. I've nothing more to say to you; you are at
liberty to go. To-morrow your father will be before the magistrates.'

Emily moved to the door. The sound of the words had blanched her lips.
She felt that, if she would keep hold upon her bodily strength, she must
breathe the outer air.

'Look here, I say,' he exclaimed, stepping to the table. 'Take the
money. I've nothing to do with that.'

She made a motion with her hand, but hastened still and escaped. Once in
the garden she all but ran, thinking she heard his footsteps in pursuit,
and smitten with that sudden terror which comes sometimes when a danger
is escaped. But she had gained the Heath, and it was certain now that he
had not tried to overtake her, a glance back showed her that no one was
in sight. She walked rapidly on, though her heart seemed about to burst,
walked without pausing till she had reached the quarry. Here she sat on
the same stone as before. She was in dread of fainting; the anguish of
her leaping blood was intolerable; she had neither sight nor hearing.
But the crisis of suffering passed; she let her head fall forward and
buried it upon her lap.

Perhaps for ten minutes she remained thus, then a great crash from the
near heavens caused her to look up. It was raining, had rained since she
sat there, though she had not known it. In the little pool before her
great drops splashed and made a miniature tempest. The yellow flower she
had plucked lay close by, and was beaten by the rain. It lightened
vividly, and there followed heavier thunder than before.

She wished to shed tears--tears were choking her, but would not rise and
shed themselves; she could only sob, aloud, hysterically. The words
'Father' and 'Wilfrid' broke from her lips several times. Was there
red-hot metal poured upon her forehead?

It cost her a great effort to rise and walk homewards. The rain streamed
down, but she could no longer hasten. Still she reached the house before
her mother's return from church, and she was glad of that.

CHAPTER XIII

THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT

For the final failure of his plot Dagworthy was in no wise prepared. He
had anticipated prolonged scenes, passionate pleadings, appeals to his
better nature, and to