n. She was thoroughly unstrung.

Cartwright was human, and muttered some words of regret that a poor
fellow must do his duty.

"Oh, it is not that," sobbed Phoebe. "I can find the money. I have found
more for him than that, many's the time." Then, drying her eyes, "But
you must know the world, and I dare say you can see how 'tis with me."

"I can," said Cartwright, gravely. "I overheard you and him; and, my
girl, if you take my advice, why, let him go. He is a gentleman skin
deep, and dresses well, and can palaver a girl, no doubt; but bless
your heart, I can see at a glance he is not worth your little finger,
an honest, decent young woman like you. Why, it is like butter fighting
with stone. Let him go; or I will tell you what it is, you will hang for
him some day, or else make away with yourself."

"Ay, sir," said Phoebe, "that's likelier; and if I was to let him go to
prison, I should sit me down and think of his parting look, and I should
fling myself into the water for him before I was a day older."

"Ye mustn't do that anyway. While there's life there's hope."

Upon this Phoebe put him a question, and found him ready to do anything
for her, in reason--provided he was paid for it. And the end of it all
was, the prisoner was conveyed to London; Phoebe got the requisite sum;
Falcon was deposited in a third-class carriage bound for Essex. Phoebe
paid his debt, and gave Cartwright a present, and away rattled the train
conveying the handsome egotist into temporary retirement, to wit, at
a village five miles from the Dales' farm. She was too ashamed of her
young gentleman and herself to be seen with him in her native village.
On the road down he was full of little practical attentions; she
received them coldly; his mellifluous mouth was often at her car,
pouring thanks and praises into it; she never vouchsafed a word of
reply. All she did was to shudder now and then, and cry at intervals.
Yet, whenever he left her side, her whole body became restless; and when
he came back to her, a furtive thrill announced the insane complacency
his bare contact gave her. Surely, of all the forms in which love
torments the heart, this was the most terrible and pitiable.

Mr. Lusignan found his daughter in tears.

"Why, what is the matter now?" said he, a little peevishly. "We have had
nothing of this sort of thing lately."

"Papa, it is because I have misconducted myself. I am a foolish,
imprudent girl. I have been flirting w