"What shall I do?" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge.

Stella came to him quickly, with a little cry of dismay.

"What is it, uncle? Are you ill—is it bad news? Oh, what is the matter?"

And she looked up into his pale and agitated face with anxious concern.

His gaze was fixed on vacancy, but there was more than abstraction in his eyes—there was acute pain and anguish.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm. "Pray tell me."

At the words he started slightly, and crushed the telegram in his hand.

"No, no!" he said—"anything but that." Then, composing himself with an effort, he pressed her hand and smiled faintly. "Yes, it is bad news, Stella; it is always bad news that a telegram brings."

Stella led him in; his hands were trembling, and the dumb look of pain still clouded his eyes.

"Will you not tell me what it is?" she murmured, as he sank into his accustomed chair and leant his white head on his hand. "Tell me what it is, and let me help you to bear it by sharing it with you."

And she wound her arm around his neck.

"Don't ask me, Stella. I can't tell you—I cannot. The shame would kill me. No! No!"

"Shame!" murmured Stella, her proud, lovely face paling, as she shrank back a little; but the next moment she pressed closer to him, with a sad smile.

"Not shame for you, dear; shame and you were never meant to come together."

[99]

He started, and raised his head.

"Yes, shame!" he repeated, almost fiercely, his hands clinched—"such bitter, debasing shame and disgrace. For the first time the name we have held for so many years will be stained and dragged in the dirt. What shall I do?" And he hid his face in his hands.

Then, with a sudden start, he rose, and looked round with trembling eagerness.

"I—I must go to London," he said, brokenly. "What is the time? So late! Is there no train? Stella, run and ask Mrs. Penfold. I must go at once—at once; every moment is of consequence."

"Go to London—to-night—so late? Oh, you cannot!" exclaimed Stella, aghast.

"My dear, I must," he said more calmly. "It is urgent, most urgent business that calls for me, and I must go."

Stella stole out of the room, and was about to wake Mrs. Penfold, when she remembered having seen a time-table in the kitchen, and stealing down-stairs again, hunted until she found it.

When she took it into the studio, she found her uncle standing with his hat on and his coat buttoned.

"Give it to me," he said. "There is a train, an early market train that I can catch if I start at once," and with trembling fingers he turned over the pages of the time-book. "Yes, I must go, Stella."

"But not alone, uncle!" she implored. "Not alone, surely. You will let me come with you."

He put his hand upon her arm and kissed her, his eyes moist.

"Stella, I must go alone; no one can help me in this matter. There are some troubles that we must meet unaided except by a Higher Power; this is one of them. Heaven bless you, my dear; you help me to bear it with your loving sympathy. I wish I could tell you, but I cannot, Stella—I cannot."

"Do not then, dear," she whispered. "You will not be away long?"

"Not longer than I can help," he sighed. "You will be quite safe, Stella?"

"Safe!" and she smiled sadly.

"Mrs. Penfold must take care of you. I don't like leaving you, but it cannot be helped! Child, I did not think to have a secret from you so soon!"

At the words Stella started, and a red flush came over her face.

She, too, had a secret, and as it flashed into her mind, from whence the sudden trouble had momentarily banished it, her heart beat fast and her eyes drooped.

"There should be no secrets between us two," he said. "But—there—there—don't look so troubled, my dear. I shall not be long gone."

She clung to him to the last, until indeed the little white gate had closed behind him, then she went back to the house and sat down in his chair, and sat pondering and trembling.

[100]

For a time the secret trouble which had befallen her uncle absorbed all her mind and care, but presently the memory of all that had happened to her that evening awoke and overcame her sorrow, and she sat with clasped hands and drooping head recalling the handsome face and passionate voice of Lord Leycester.

It was all so wonderful, so unreal, that it seemed like a stage play, in which the magnificent house formed the scene and the noble men and women the players, with the tall, stalwart, graceful form of Lord Leycester for the hero. It was difficult to realize that she too took a part, so to speak, in the drama, that she was, in fact, the heroine, and that it was to her that all the passionate vows of the young lord had been spoken. She could feel his burning kisses on her lips; could feel the touch of the clinging, lingering caresses on her neck; yes, it was all real; she loved Lord Leycester, and he, strange and wonderful to add, loved her.

Why should he do it? she marvel............