he question
would not come. A simple thing brought it out. Natalie, after looking
seaward silently for some minutes, said simply:

"How long are we to stand here, I wonder?"

"Until you answer this question. How much do you know about your
brother's Society, which I have joined to my own intense regret?"

"I am sorry you regret having joined," she replied gravely.

"You would not be sorry," said I, "if you knew as much about it as I
do," forgetting that I had still no answer to my question, and that the
extent of her knowledge was unknown to me.

"I believe I do know as much as you." There was a tremor in her voice
and an anxious pleading look in her eyes. This look maddened me. Why
should she plead to me unless she was guilty? I stamped my foot upon the
rock without noticing that in so doing I kicked our whole collection of
shells into the water.

There was something more to ask, but I stood silent and sullen. The
woods above the beach were choral with bird-voices. They were hateful to
me. The sea song of the tumbling waves was hideous. I cursed the yellow
sunset light glaring on their snowy crests. A tiny hand was laid upon my
arm. I writhed under its deadly if delicious touch. But I could not put
it away, nor keep from turning to the sweet face beside me, to mark once
more its mute appeal--now more than mere appeal; it was supplication
that was in her eyes. Her red lips were parted as though they voiced an
unspoken prayer. At last a prayer did pass from them to me.

"Do not judge me until you know me better. Do not hate me without cause.
I am not wicked, as you think. I--I--I am trying to do what I think is
right. At least, I am not selfish or cruel. Trust me yet a little
while."

I looked at her one moment, and then with a sob I clasped her in my
arms, and cried aloud:

"My God! to name murder and that angel face in one breath! Child, you
have been befooled. You know nothing."

For a second she lingered in my embrace. Then she gently put away my
arms, and looking up at me, said fearlessly but sorrowfully:

"I cannot lie--even for your love. I know _all_."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE WOKING MYSTERY.

She knew all. Then she was a murderess--or in sympathy with murderers.
My arms fell from her. I drew back shuddering. I dared not look in her
lying eyes, which cried pity when her base heart knew no mercy. Surely
now I had solved the maddening puzzle which the character of this girl
had, so far, present