ouse you come to after that is the
inn. You understand!"

He nodded his head, with a sullen frown, and took his pipe out of his
pocket again.

"Let it alone this time," he said, meeting her eye. "My mind's upset.
When a man's mind's upset, a man can't smoke. What's the name of the
place?"

"Craig Fernie."

"Who am I to ask for at the door?"

"For your wife."

"Suppose they want you to give your name when you get there?"

"If I must give a name, I shall call myself Mrs., instead of Miss,
Silvester. But I shall do my best to avoid giving any name. And you will
do your best to avoid making a mistake, by only asking for me as your
wife. Is there any thing else you want to know?"

"Yes."

"Be quick about it! What is it?"

"How am I to know you have got away from here?"

"If you don't hear from me in half an hour from the time when I have
left you, you may be sure I have got away. Hush!"

Two voices, in conversation, were audible at the bottom of the
steps--Lady Lundie's voice and Sir Patrick's. Anne pointed to the door
in the back wall of the summer-house. She had just pulled it to again,
after Geoffrey had passed through it, when Lady Lundie and Sir Patrick
appeared at the top of the steps.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

THE SUITOR.

LADY LUNDIE pointed significantly to the door, and addressed herself to
Sir Patrick's private ear.

"Observe!" she said. "Miss Silvester has just got rid of somebody."

Sir Patrick deliberately looked in the wrong direction, and (in the
politest possible manner) observed--nothing.

Lady Lundie advanced into the summer-house. Suspicious hatred of the
governess was written legibly in every line of her face. Suspicious
distrust of the governess's illness spoke plainly in every tone of her
voice.

"May I inquire, Miss Silvester, if your sufferings are relieved?"

"I am no better, Lady Lundie."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I was no better."

"You appear to be able to stand up. When _I_ am ill, I am not so
fortunate. I am obliged to lie down."'

"I will follow your example, Lady Lundie. If you will be so good as to
excuse me, I will leave you, and lie down in my own room."

She could say no more. The interview with Geoffrey had worn her out;
there was no spirit left in her to resist the petty malice of the woman,
after bearing, as she had borne it, the brutish indifference of the man.
In another moment the hysterical suffering which she was keeping down
would have forced