ken him, and the fact that they had
endeavoured to escape the moment they heard of Shand's arrival. But not
the less had he hated Caldigate. The feeling which had been impressed on
his mind when the first facts were made known to him remained. Caldigate
had been engaged to marry the woman, and had lived with her, and had
addressed her as his wife! The man had in a way got the better of him.
And then the twenty thousand pounds! And then, again, Caldigate's manner
to himself! He could not get over his personal aversion, and therefore
unconsciously wished that his brother-in-law should be guilty,--wished
at any rate that he should be kept in prison. Gradually had fallen upon
him the conviction that Caldigate would be pardoned. And then of course
there had come much consideration as to his sister's condition. He, too,
was a conscientious and an affectionate man. He was well aware of his
duty to his sister. While he was able to assure himself that Caldigate
was not her husband, he could satisfy himself by a conviction that it
was his duty to keep them apart. Thus he could hate the man, advocate
all severity against the man, and believe the while that he was doing
his duty to his sister as an affectionate brother. But now there was a
revulsion. It was three weeks since he and his brother had parted, not
with the kindest feelings, up in London, and during that time the
sifting of the evidence had been going on within his own breast from
hour to hour. And now this letter had come,--a letter which he could not
put away in anger, a letter which he could not ignore. To quarrel
permanently with his brother William was quite out of the question. He
knew the value of such a friend too well, and had been too often guided
by his advice. So he sifted the evidence once again, and then walked off
to Puritan Grange with the letter in his pocket.

In these latter days old Mr. Bolton did not go often into Cambridge. Men
said that his daughter's misfortune had broken him very much. It was
perhaps the violence of his wife's religion rather than the weight of
his daughter's sufferings which cowed him. Since Hester's awful
obstinacy had become hopeless to Mrs. Bolton, an atmosphere of sackcloth
and ashes had made itself more than ever predominant at Puritan Grange.
If any one hated papistry Mrs. Bolton did so; but from a similar action
of religious fanaticism she had fallen into worse that papistical
self-persecution. That men and women were all