ith
the letter, there was one hope in her mind and in her aunt's mind, which
each was ashamed to acknowledge to the other--the hope that Launce would
face the very danger that they dreaded for him, and come to the house.

They had not been long alone again, when Sir Joseph drowsily opened his
eyes and asked what they were doing in his room. They told him gently
that he was ill. He put his hand up to his head, and said they were
right, and so dropped off again into slumber. Worn out by the emotions
through which they had passed, the two women silently waited for the
march of events. The same stupor of resignation possessed them both.
They had secured the door and the window. They had prayed together. They
had kissed the quiet face on the pillow. They had said to each other,
"We will live with him or die with him as God pleases." Miss Lavinia
sat by the bedside. Natalie was on a stool at her feet--with her eyes
closed, and her head on her aunt's knee.

Time went on. The clock in the hall had struck--ten or eleven, they
were not sure which--when they heard the signal which warned them of the
servant's return from the village. He brought news, and more than news;
he brought a letter from Launce.

Natalie read these lines:

"I shall be with you, dearest, almost as soon as you receive this. The
bearer will tell you what has happened in the village--your note throws
a new light on it all. I only remain behind to go to the vicar (who is
also the magistrate here), and declare myself your husband. All disguise
must be at an end now. My place is with you and yours. It is even worse
than your worst fears. Turlington was at the bottom of the attack on
your father. Judge if you have not need of your husband's protection
after that!--L."

Natalie handed the letter to her aunt, and pointed to the sentence which
asserted Turlington's guilty knowledge of the attempt on Sir Joseph's
life. In silent horror the two women looked at each other, recalling
what had happened earlier in the evening, and understanding it now. The
servant roused them to a sense of present things, by entering on the
narrative of his discoveries in the village.

The place was all astir when he reached it. An old man--a stranger in
Baxdale--had been found lying in the road, close to the church, in a
fit; and the person who had discovered him had been no other than Launce
himself. He had, literally, stumbled over the body of Thomas Wildfang in
the dark, on his w