them all a little wearily, and limped over to the window.
He stood looking out into the limes where he and Frank had played when
boys. He put his finger up, his unhandsome finger, and caught away some
moisture from his eyes. He did not dare to let them see his face, nor
yet to speak. Marion had cut deeper than she knew, and he would carry
the wound for many a day before it healed.

But his sister felt instantly how cruel she had been, as she saw him
limp away, and caught sight of the bowed shoulders and the prematurely
grey hair. Her heart smote her. She ran over, and impulsively put her
hands on his shoulder. "Oh, Dick," she said, "forgive me, Dick! I didn't
mean it. I was angry and foolish and hateful."

He took one of her hands as it rested on his shoulder, she standing
partly behind him, and raised it to his lips, but he did not turn to
her; he could not.

"It is all right--all right," he said; "it doesn't make any difference.
Let us think of Frank and what we have got to do. Let us stand together,
Marion; that is best."

But her tears were dropping on his shoulder, as her forehead rested on
her hand. He knew now that, whatever Frank's wife was, she would not
have an absolute enemy here; for when Marion cried her heart was soft.
She was clay in the hands of the potter whom we call Mercy--more often
a stranger to the hearts of women than of men. At the other side of the
room also the father and mother, tearless now, watched these two; and
the mother saw her duty better and with less rebelliousness. She had
felt it from the first, but she could not bring her mind to do it.
They held each other's hands in silence. Presently General Armour said:
"Richard, your mother and I will go to Liverpool to meet Frank's wife."

Marion shuddered a little, and her hands closed on Richard's shoulder,
but she said nothing.

CHAPTER III. OUT OF THE NORTH

It was a beautiful day--which was so much in favour of Mrs. Frank Armour
in relation to her husband's people. General Armour and his wife had
come down from London by the latest train possible, that their suspense
at Liverpool might be short. They said little to each other, but when
they did speak it was of things very different from the skeleton which
they expected to put into the family cupboard presently. Each was trying
to spare the other. It was very touching. They naturally looked upon the
matter in its most unpromising light, because an Indian was an Indian,
and