eep his promise. If he does not, I will
kill him, or he must kill me."

"If he kills you, Will, he must then fight me." And Brune's face grew
red and hot, and his eyes flashed angry fire.

"That is as it should be; only keep your anger at interest until you
have lads to take your place. We mustn't leave Ambar-Side without an
Anneys to heir it. I fancy your wrath won't get cold while it is
waiting."

"It will get hotter and hotter."

"And whatever happens, don't you be saving of kind words to Aspatria.
The little lass has suffered more than a bit; and she is that like
mother! I couldn't bide, even if I was in my grave, to think of her
wanting kindness."

The next morning Will went away. Brune would not talk to Aspatria
about the journey. This course was a mistake; it would have done her
good to talk continually of it. As it was, she was left to chew over
and over the cud of her mournful anticipations. She had no womanly
friend near her. Mrs. Frostham had drawn back a little when people
began to talk of "poor Miss Anneys." She had daughters, and she did
not feel that her friendship for the dead included the living, when
the living were unfortunate and had questionable things said about
them.

And the last bitter drop in Aspatria's cup full of sorrow was the
hardness of her heart toward Heaven. She could not care about God; she
thought God did not care for her. She had tried to make herself pray,
even by going to her mother's grave, but she felt no spark of that
hidden fire which is the only acceptable prayer. There was a Christ
cut out of ivory, nailed to a large ebony cross, in her room. It had
been taken from the grave of an old abbot in Aspatria Church, and had
been in her mother's family three hundred years. It was a Christ that
had been in the grave and had come back to earth. Her mother's eyes
had closed forever while fixed upon it, and to Aspatria it had always
been an object of supreme reverence and love. She was shocked to find
herself unmoved by its white pathos. Even at her best hours she could
only stand with clasped hands and streaming eyes before it, and with
sad imploration cry,--

"I cannot pray! I cannot pray! Forgive me, Christ!"

CHAPTER III.

ONLY BROTHER WILL.

It was a dull raw day in late autumn, especially dull and raw near the
sea, where there was an evil-looking sky to the eastward. Ulfar
Fenwick stood at a window in Castle Fenwick which commanded the black,
white-frilled s