nducing
Ruth Annersley to leave her home?"

"Well, I only say what father told me," says Andrews, in a
half-apologetic fashion, being somewhat abashed by her anger. "And he
ain't one to lie much. He saw him with her in the wood the night she
went to Lunnun, or wherever 'twas, and they walked together in the way
to Langham Station. They do say, too, that----"

A quick light footstep, a putting aside of branches, and Georgie,
pale, but composed, appears before them. Andrews, losing his head,
drops the knife he is holding, and Graham grows a fine purple.

"I don't think you are doing much good here, Andrews," says Mrs.
Branscombe, pleasantly. "These trees look well enough: go to the
eastern walk, and see what can be done there."

Andrews, only too thankful for the chance of escape, picks up his
knife again and beats a hasty retreat.

Then Georgie, turning to Graham, says slowly,--

"Now, tell me every word of it, from beginning to end."

Her assumed unconsciousness has vanished. Every particle of color has
flown from her face, her brow is contracted, her eyes are shining with
a new and most unenviable brilliancy. Perhaps she knows this herself,
as, after the first swift glance at the woman on Andrews's departure,
she never lifts her eyes again, but keeps them deliberately fixed upon
the ground during the entire interview. She speaks in a low
concentrated tone, but with firm compressed lips.

Graham's feelings at this moment would be impossible to describe.
Afterwards--many months afterwards--she herself gave some idea of them
when she declared to the cook that she thought she should have
"swooned right off."

"Oh, madam! tell you what?" she says, now, in a terrified tone,
shrinking away from her mistress, and turning deadly pale.

"You know what you were speaking about just now when I came up."

"It was nothing, madam, I assure you, only idle gossip, not worth----"

"Do not equivocate to me. You were speaking of Mr. Branscombe. Repeat
your 'idle gossip.' I will have it word for word. Do you hear?" She
beats her foot with quick impatience against the ground.

"Do not compel me to repeat so vile a lie," entreats Graham,
earnestly. "It is altogether false. Indeed, madam,"--confusedly,--"I
cannot remember what it was we were saying when you came up to us so
unexpectedly."

"Then I shall refresh your memory. You were talking of your master
and--and of that girl in the village who----" The words almost
suffocat