ingenuousness was to desert her. She was to become as cunning as
dauntless. Do you doubt it? Put yourself in her place. Think of what
she had done, and why she had done it; think of what came of it, and
may yet come of it. Then look into your own heart; or, better far,
look into the heart of another--you will be quicker to detect the
truth and the falsehood that lies _there_.

Then listen to what the next six days will bring forth.

The cottage at Fornside has never been occupied since the tailor
abandoned it. Hardly in Wythburn was there any one so poor as to covet
such shelter for a home. It was a single-storied house with its back
to the road. Its porch was entered from five or six steps that led
downwards from a little garden. It had three small rooms, with low
ceilings and paved floors. In the summer the fuchsia flecked its front
with white and red. In these winter days the dark ivy was all that
grew about it.

Lonely, cheerless, and now proscribed by the fears and superstitions
of the villagers, it stood as gaunt as a solitary pine on the mountain
head that has been blasted and charred by the lightning.

When Rotha reached it she hesitated as if uncertain whether to go in
or go back. She stood at the little wicket, while the dog bounded into
the garden. In another moment Laddie had run into the house itself.

How was this? She had locked the door. The key had been hidden as
usual in the place known only to her father and herself. Rotha hurried
down, and pushed her hand deep into the thatch covering the porch. The
key was gone. The door stood open.

And now, besides the pat of the dog's feet, she heard noises from
within.

Rotha put her hand to her heart. Could it be that her father had come
home? Was he here, here?

The girl stepped into the kitchen. Then a loud clash, as of a closing
chest, came from an inner room. In an instant there was the rustle of
a dress, and Mrs. Garth and Rotha were face to face in that dim
twilight.

The recoil of emotion was too much for the girl. She stood silent. The
woman looked at her for an instant with something more like a
frightened expression than had yet been seen on her hard face.

Then she brushed past her and away.

"Stop!" cried Rotha, recovering herself.

The woman was gone, and the girl did not pursue her.

Rotha went into the room which Mrs. Garth had come from. It was
Wilson's room. There was his trunk still, which none had claimed. The
trunk--the has