t the consequences,
for he tried after the honeymoon to prove the marriage bad. But the Welsh
parson and the innkeeper papa were too strong for him, and the young lady
was able to hold her struggling swain fast in that respectable noose--and a
pretty prize he proved!'

'And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard.'

'She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; but I really
can't say about her heart. She certainly had enough ill-usage, I believe,
to kill her; but I don't know that she had feeling enough to die of it, if
it had not been that she drank: I am told that Welsh women often do. There
was jealousy, of course, and brutal quarrelling, and all sorts of horrid
stories. I visited at Bartram-Haugh for a year or two, though no one else
would. But when that sort of thing began, of course I gave it up; it was
out of the question. I don't think poor Austin ever knew how bad it was.
And then came that odious business about wretched Mr. Charke. You know
he--he committed suicide at Bartram.'

'I never heard about that,' I said; and we both paused, and she looked
sternly at the fire, and the storm roared and ha-ha-ed till the old house
shook again.

'But Uncle Silas could not help that,' I said at last.

'No, he could not help it,' she acquiesced unpleasantly.

'And Uncle Silas was'--I paused in a sort of fear.

'He was suspected by some people of having killed him'--she completed the
sentence.

There was another long pause here, during which the storm outside bellowed
and hooted like an angry mob roaring at the windows for a victim. An
intolerable and sickening sensation overpowered me.

'But _you_ did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?' I said, trembling very
much.

'No,' she answered very sharply. 'I told you so before. Of course I did
not.'

There was another silence.

'I wish, Cousin Monica,' I said, drawing close to her, 'you had not said
_that_ about Uncle Silas being like a wizard, and sending his spirits
on the wind to listen. But I'm very glad you never suspected him.' I
insinuated my cold hand into hers, and looked into her face I know not with
what expression. She looked down into mine with a hard, haughty stare, I
thought.

'Of _course_ I never suspected him; and _never_ ask me _that_ question
again, Maud Ruthyn.'

Was it family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyes
as she said this? I was frightened--I was wounded--I burst into tears.

'What is my