o her house.

She got up, leaving the door of the sitting-room open that the light
might enter the dark hall.

Then, most unaccountably, a sense of fear, very unusual to her,
seemed to possess her. She stood still a moment in the hall and
waited.

The knock was repeated, so near this time that it made her start. She
was not naturally a timid woman, but she felt a sense of physical
fear which was totally unreasoning. What harm was likely to come to
her from such a source? She compelled herself to go forward and open
the door.

It was very dark outside, and she vaguely distinguished the outline
of a tall man standing before her. The light from the open door at
her back threw out her figure in distinct relief, and it was evident
that she had been recognized, for a voice said, in low but distinct
tones,

"Lady Hurdly."

She gave a cry and pressed both hands against her breast, sharply
drawing in her breath. Then she took a few steps backward, throwing
out one hand to support herself against the wall.

"Forgive me," said the well-known voice--the voice out of all the
world to which her blood-beats answered. "I have come on you too
suddenly. I ought to have written and asked permission to call. I
should have done so, only I feared you might deny me."

Somehow the door was closed behind them and they had made their way
into the lighted room. Bettina, still pale and breathless, began to
murmur some excuses.

"I beg your pardon; I was frightened. Nora had gone out, and I was
all alone. I did not know who it might be. I never have visitors, and
I was afraid to open the door."

He was looking at her keenly.

"You should not be alone like this," he said, both resentment and
indignation in his tone. "Why do you never have visitors? Why did
Nora leave you? Where are the other servants?"

"There are no others. There is only Nora," she said, recovering
herself a little. "I let her go to church to-night. I am not usually
afraid. Why should I be? Perhaps I am not very well." As she uttered
these incoherent sentences she sank into a chair and he took one near
her.

The expression of his face had changed from anxiety to a stern
sadness.

"And you live alone like this," he said, "without proper service or
protection? And, in spite of all that I could say and do, you will
not take the miserable pittance which is your own, and which is
wasted there in the bank, where it can avail for no one? Do you think
this is right to