“Yet she is my grandfather’s wife!”

“An irreparable misfortune.  I can’t expose her life to him; such a blow to his pride might be his death, at his age.  No! events must take their course; but I hope he will not take her to any place where she is likely to be recognized.  Nor do I think he will.  He is aging fast, and will be likely to live quietly at Rockhold.”

“And I think she also would avoid such risks.  She was terribly frightened when she recognized the Dean of Olivet.  Was he really her stepfather, the once poor curate?”

“Yes.  You see while they were lionizing him in the Eastern cities, his portrait, with a short biographical notice, was published in one of the illustrated weeklies, where I read of him, and identified him by comparing notes with what I had heard.”

“How came he to rise so high?”

“Oh, he was a learned divine and eloquent orator.  He was well connected, too.  It would seem that a very few months after his step-daughter’s flight he was inducted into that rich living for which he had been waiting so many years.  From that position his rise was slow indeed, covering a period of twenty years, until a few months ago, when he was made Dean of Olivet.”

“To think that a man capable of quarreling with his wife and ill-using their step-child should fill so sacred a position in the church!” exclaimed Cora.

“Yes; but you see, my dear, the church is his profession, not his vocation.  He is a brilliant pulpit orator, with influential friends; but every brilliant pulpit orator is not necessarily a saint.  And as for his quarreling with his wife and ill-using their step-daughter, we have heard but one side of that story.”

When they entered the Rockhold drawing room they found Mrs. Rockharrt alone.  She arose and came forward and received them with a smile.

“Your grandfather, my dear,” she explained to Cora, “came home later than usual from North End, and very much more than usually fatigued.  Immediately after dinner he lay down and I left him asleep.”

“Where is Uncle Clarence?” inquired Corona.

“He remains at the works for the night.  Will you have this chair, love?” said Rose, pulling forward a luxurious “sleepy hollow.”

“No, thank you.  I must go to my room and change my dress.  Will you excuse me for half an hour, Uncle Fabian?” inquired Cora.

“Most willingly, my dear,” replied Mr. Fabian, with a very pleased look.  Cora left the room.

“I will go with you,” exclaimed Rose, turning pale and starting up to follow the young lady.

“No.  You will not,” said Mr. Fabian, in a tone of authority, as he laid his hand heavily on the woman’s shoulder.  “Sit down.  I have something to say to you.”

CHAPTER XXII.

FABIAN AND ROSE.

“What do you mean?”

“I should rather ask what do you mean, or rather what did you mean, by daring to marry any honest man, and of all men—­Aaron Rockharrt?  It was the most audacious challenging of destruction that the most reckless desperado could venture upon.”  Fabian Rockharrt continued, mercilessly: