“Good-evening, Miss Lind,” he said respectfully, raising his hat.

“Good-evening,” said she, trembling.

“You are not looking quite well.”

“I have walked too much; and I feel a little tired.  That is why I had to sit down.  I shall be rested presently.”

Conolly sat down on a felled trunk opposite Marian.  “This is my last visit to Carbury Towers,” he said.  “No doubt you know that I am going for good.”

“Yes,” said Marian.  “I—­I am greatly obliged to you for all the pains you have taken with me in the laboratory.  You have been very patient.  I suppose I have often wasted your time unreasonably.”

“No,” said Conolly, unceremoniously, “you have not wasted my time:  I never let anybody do that.  My time belonged to Lord Carbury, not to myself.  However, that is neither here nor there.  I enjoyed giving you lessons.  Unless you enjoyed taking them, the whole obligation rests on me.”

“They were very pleasant.”

He shifted himself into an easier position, looking well pleased.  Then he said, carelessly, “Has Mr. Marmaduke Lind come down?”

Marian reddened and felt giddy.

“I want to avoid meeting him,” continued Conolly; “and I thought perhaps you might know enough of his movements this evening to help me to do so.  It does not matter much; but I have a reason.”

Marian felt the hysteric globe at her throat as she tried to speak; but she repressed it, and said: 

“Mr. Conolly:  I know the reason.  I did not know before:  I am sure you did not think I did.  I made a dreadful mistake.”

“Why!” said Conolly, with some indignation, “who has told you since?”

“Marmaduke,” said Marian, roused to reply quickly by the energy of the questioner.  “He did not mean to be indiscreet:  he thought I knew.”

“Thought!  He never thought in his life, Miss Lind.  However, he was right enough to tell you; and I am glad you know the truth, because it explains my behavior the last time we met.  It took me aback a bit for the moment.”

“You were very forbearing.  I hope you will not think me intrusive if I tell you how sincerely sorry I am for the misfortune which has come to you.”

“What misfortune?”

Marian lost confidence again, and looked at him in silent distress.

“To be sure,” he interposed, quickly.  “I know; but you had put it all out of my head.  I am much obliged to you.  Not that I am much concerned about it.  You will perhaps think it an instance of the depravity of my order, Miss Lind; but I am not one of those people who think it pious to consider their near relatives as if they were outside the natural course of things.  I never was a good son or a good brother or a good patriot in the sense of thinking that my mother and my sister and my native country were better than other people’s because I happened to belong to them.  I knew what would happen some