“Oh, Dolly!  Dolly! will you ever forgive me?  Why did I not tell you before?  But I thought it was only a dream.  And indeed, indeed I thought Mr. Manners had done it.  But that man Parker!  If it had not been for Mr. Manners being found there, I should have sworn that Parker had done it.  Dolly!  I saw him that night.  He came in and helped.  And once I saw him look at Mr. Manners with such a strange expression, and he seemed so anxious to make him say that it was a quarrel, and that he had done it in self-defence.  But you know I thought it must be Mr. Manners—­and I did so love poor Edmund!”

And she lay sobbing in agony on the ground.  I said—­

“My love, I pray that it is not too late:  but we must not waste time.  Help me now, Harriet!”

She sprang up at once.

“Yes! you must have food.  You shall go.  I shall not go with you.  I am not worthy, but I will pray till you come back again.”

I said, “There is one most important thing for you to do.  Let no soul go out or come into the house till I return, or some gossip will bring it to Parker’s ears that we have gone to London.”

Harriet promised, and rushed off to get me food and wine.  With her own hands she filled a hot-water bottle for my feet in the chariot, supplied my purse with gold, and sewed some notes up in my stays; and (as if anxious to crowd into this one occasion all the long-withheld offices of sisterly kindness) came in with her arms full of a beautiful set of sables that belonged to her—­cloak, cuffs, muff, etc.—­and in these she dressed me.  And then we fell into each others arms, and I wept upon her neck the first tears I had shed that day.  As I stood on the doorstep, she held up the candle and looked at me.

“My dear!” she said, “how pretty your sweet face does look out of those great furs!  You shall keep them always.”

Dear Harriet!  Her one idea—­beauty.  I suppose the “ruling passion,” whatever it may be, is strong with all of us, even in the face of death.  Moreover, hers was one of those shallow minds that seem instinctively to escape by any avenue from a painful subject; and by the time that I was in the chariot, she had got over the first shock, and there was an almost infectious cheerfulness in her farewell.

“It must be all right, Dolly!”

Then I fell back, and we started.  The warm light of the open door became a speck, and then nothing; and in the long dark drive, when every footfall of the horses seemed to consume an age, the sickening agony of suspense was almost intolerable.  Oh, my dear! never, never shall I forget that night.  The black trees and hedges whirling past us in the darkness, always the same, like an enchanted drive; then the endless suburbs, and at last the streets where people lounged in corners and stopped the way, as if every second of time were not worth a king’s ransom; and sedan-chairs trotted lightly home from