truck at once by some indefinable change that had passed over
her since he had seen her last. He had noticed her, as he noticed
everybody that came within his ken; and he had remarked the mechanical
precision of her demeanor, the dull sadness of her lifeless eyes. There
was a light in her face now, a tremulous quiver of her lips, a slight
color in her thin cheeks. She looked like a creature who could feel and
think: not an automaton, worked by ingenious machinery.

He noted the change, but did not estimate it at its true worth. He
thought she was simply excited by the consciousness of her misdemeanor,
and by the prospect of an interview with him. He put on his most
magisterial manner as he spoke to her.

"Well, Kingston," he said, "I hope you have come to explain the cause of
the great inconvenience you have brought upon Miss Brooke and my
daughter."

"That is exactly what I have come to do, sir," said Kingston, looking
him full in the face, and speaking in clear, decided tones, such as he
had never heard from her before. She generally spoke in a muffled sort
of way, as though she did not care to exert herself--as though she did
not want her true voice to be heard.

"Sit down," said Mr. Brooke, more kindly. He had the true gentleman's
instinct; he could not bear to see a woman stand while he was seated,
although she was only his daughter's maid, and--presumably--a culprit
awaiting condemnation. "Now tell me all about it."

"Thank you, sir, I'd prefer to stand," said Kingston, quietly. "At any
rate, until I've told you one or two things about myself. To begin
with: my name was Kingston before my marriage, but it's not Kingston
now."

"Do you mean that you have got married since Saturday?" asked Caspar,
quietly.

The woman uttered a short, gasping sort of laugh. "Since Saturday? Oh,
no, sir. I've been married for the last six years, or more. I am Francis
Trent's wife--Francis the brother of Mr. Oliver Trent, who was here last
Saturday night."

And then, overcome with her confession, or with the look of mute
astonishment--which he could not repress--on Caspar Brooke's
countenance, she dropped into the chair that he had offered her, covered
her face with her hands and sobbed aloud. It took her hearer some
seconds before he could adjust his mind to this new revelation.

"Do you mean," he said at last, "that brother of Mr. Trent's"--he had
nearly said "of Mrs. Romaine's"--"who--who----" He paused, feeling
unable t