was still in the house, talking
over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before he
proceeded back on his journey home.

"She will do very well," said the doctor. "It's only a simple
fracture. I'll see her the day after to-morrow."

"Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst
walking?" asked Mr Vavasor.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "One never can say how anything
may occur," said he. "I know a young woman who broke the os femoris
by just kicking her cat;--at least, she said she did."

"Indeed! I suppose you didn't take any trouble to inquire?"

"Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she got
it. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing
came of it. Good night, Mr Vavasor. Don't trouble her with questions
till she has had some hours' sleep, at any rate." Then the doctor
went, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to the
dining-room fire.

There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Kate
had fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr
Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature of
the accident which had occurred. Mrs Greenow had at once ascertained
that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for. Luckily
he had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little before
ten o'clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses,
she volunteered her account of what had occurred.

Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said, and had
left her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen, she went on to
say, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurt
herself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and,
indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out
of her sight. This was her story; and there was nothing in it that
was false by the letter, though there was much that was false in the
spirit. It was certainly true that George had not known that she was
injured. It was true that she had asked him for no help. It was true,
in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had not
herself known how severe had been the injury done to her till he had
gone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed all mention
of his violence, and when she was pressed as to the nature of the
quarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.

Neither her uncle nor her