others.  Why should his exclusive possession of a secret—­which, even if confided to her, would only give her needless and hopeless anxiety—­debar them from an exchange of those other confidences of youth and sympathy?  Why could he not love her and yet withhold from her the knowledge of her cousin’s existence?  So he had determined to make the most of his opportunity during his brief holiday; to avail himself of her naive invitation, and even of what he dared sometimes to think was her predilection for his companionship.  And if, before he left, he had acquired a right to look forward to a time when her future and his should be one—­but here his glowing fancy was abruptly checked by his arrival at the rectory door.

Mr. Brunton received him cordially, yet with a slight business preoccupation and a certain air of importance that struck him as peculiar.  Sibyl, he informed him, was engaged at that moment with some friends who had come over from the Hall.  Mr. Trent would understand that there was a great deal for her to do—­in her present position.  Wondering why she should be selected to do it instead of older and more experienced persons, Randolph, however, contented himself with inquiries regarding the details of Sir William’s seizure and death.  He learned, as he expected, that nothing whatever was known of the captain’s visit, nor was there the least suspicion that the baronet’s attack was the result of any predisposing emotion.  Indeed, it seemed more possible that his medical attendants, knowing something of his late excesses and their effect upon his constitution, preferred, for the sake of avoiding scandal, to attribute the attack to long-standing organic disease.

Randolph, who had already determined, as a forlorn hope, to write a cautious letter to the captain (informing him briefly of the news without betraying his secret, and directed to the care of the consignees of the Dom Pedro in Brazil, by the next post), was glad to be able to add this medical opinion to relieve his patron’s mind of any fear of having hastened his brother’s death by his innocent appearance.  But here the entrance of Sibyl Eversleigh with her friends drove all else from his mind.

She looked so tall and graceful in her black dress, which set off her dazzling skin, and, with her youthful gravity, gave to her figure the charming maturity of a young widow, that he was for a moment awed and embarrassed.  But he experienced a relief when she came eagerly toward him in all her old girlish frankness, and with even something of yearning expectation in her gray eyes.

“It was so good of you to come,” she said.  “I thought you would imagine how I was feeling”—­She stopped, as if she were conscious, as Randolph was, of a certain chill of unresponsiveness in the company, and said in an undertone, “Wait until we are alone.”  Then, turning with a slight color and a pretty dignity toward her friends, she continued:  “Lady Ashbrook, this is Mr. Trent, an old friend of both my cousins when they were in America.”