arm for the walk he proposed.
The conflict which restored his spirit, saddened hers. It seemed a
presage of evil, that the first step of the orphans should involve
them in a quarrel with their nearest relations. The rowan bends
wailing under the breeze which the oak defies. Several times had the
length of the gallery been traversed in silence, when Randolph
produced a small miniature, and showed it to his sister.

"See, Helen," he said: "they found this upon him. I imagine it is her
likeness--Mrs. Pendarrel's."

"It is very beautiful," Helen remarked.

"Very beautiful," repeated her brother, "at first sight. But is it not
a beauty rather to fear than to love? There is strong expression in
the face--but of what? Is hatred or affection most apparent in those
inscrutable dark eyes? Is it good-humour or disdain that curls those
lips?"

"And why," Helen asked, "do you think it is a portrait of Mrs.
Pendarrel?"

"Because, my dear sister, our poor father told me she was once very
dear to him: she encouraged him, he said, and refused him. When they
brought me this picture, it recalled his words. There is a key to the
history which we have dimly heard."

Again the orphans made several turns in the gallery, musing in
silence. Then Randolph spoke:--

"Yes, Helen!--that was the beauty destined to be the ruin of our
house. In each successive crash that broke upon his head, our father
hoped to find forgetfulness of the past. But it was too deeply written
on his heart. And when the desolation was complete, he came back here
to hide anguish under pride, to cover tenderness with stern reserve.
Hence that cold demeanour which kept even his children at a distance,
and, seeming to reject their affection, checked, but did not stifle,
its growth. The story has made him more dear to me than ever before.
And now she, who broke his heart and drove him to ruin, insults us
with her sympathy and her wealth."

"She must herself be old," said Helen. "Perhaps she, too, has had
sorrows. I would fain believe you misinterpret that letter."

"Your wish is what it should be," observed Randolph: "I should be glad
to think it well founded. Forgive me, dear sister, if, for once, I
differ from you. We must not see Mrs. Pendarrel."

The next day Randolph Trevethlan followed his father's remains to the
vault in the village churchyard. It was but a short space from the
gates of the base-court, and within the precinct still appertaining to
the cast