ame and fame, clear Westwood's
reputation at the cost of his own, and sacrifice his freedom for the
sake of a scruple of conscience. Flossy did not believe him foolish
enough or self-denying enough to do all that--and in her estimate of her
brother's character perhaps, after all, Flossy was very nearly right.

Sabina Meldreth presented herself to Cynthia and Mrs. Jenkins that
evening, and was not very graciously received. However, she proved
herself both capable and willing, and was speedily acknowledged--by Mrs.
Jenkins, at least--to be "a great help in the house." Cynthia said
nothing; she hardly seemed to know that a stranger was present. Her
whole soul was absorbed in the task of nursing Hubert. When he slept,
she did not leave the house; she lay on a sofa in another room. She
could not bear to be far away from Hubert; and more and more, as the
days went on and the delirium was not subdued, did she shrink from the
knowledge that any other ears beside her own should hear the ravings of
the patient--should marvel at the extraordinary things he said, and
wonder whether or no there was any truth in them.

"He talked in this way because he has brooded over my poor father's
fate!" Cynthia said to herself, with piteous insistence. "He must have
been so much distressed at finding that I was the daughter of Andrew
Westwood that his mind dwelt on all the details of the trial; and now
he fancies almost that he did the deed himself. I have read of such
strange delusions in books. When he is better, no doubt the delusion
will die away. It shows how powerfully his mind was affected by what I
told him--the constant cry that he sees no way out of it shows how he
must have brooded over the matter. No way out of it indeed, my darling,
until the person who murdered Mr. Vane is discovered and brought to
justice! And I almost believe that my father is right, and that the
murderer, directly or indirectly, was Mrs. Vane."

To Cynthia, Hubert's ravings were the more painful, because they bore
almost entirely upon what had been the great grief--the tragedy--of her
life. He spoke much of Sydney Vane, of Florence, and of Cynthia herself,
but in such strange connection that at times she hardly knew what was
his meaning, or whether he had any definite meaning. Presently, however,
it appeared to her as if one or two ideas ran through the whole warp and
woof of his imaginings. One was the conviction that in some way or
another he must take West