“May I come in, my dear?” she asked.  Ellinor’s stiff dry lips refused to utter the words of assent which indeed did not come readily from her heart.

“I am so grieved at this sad news which the canon brings.  I can well understand what a shock it must be to you; we have just been saying it must be as bad for you as it would be to us if our old Donald should turn out to have been a hidden murderer all these years that he has lived with us; I really could have as soon suspected Donald as that white-haired respectable old man who used to come and see you at East Chester.”

Ellinor felt that she must say something.  “It is a terrible shock—­poor old man! and no friend near him, even Mr. Osbaldistone giving evidence again him.  Oh, dear, dear! why did I ever come to Rome?”

“Now, my dear, you must not let yourself take an exaggerated view of the case.  Sad and shocking as it is to have been so deceived, it is what happens to many of us, though not to so terrible a degree; and as to your coming to Rome having anything to do with it—­”

(Mrs. Forbes almost smiled at the idea, so anxious was she to banish the idea of self-reproach from Ellinor’s sensitive mind, but Ellinor interrupted her abruptly:)

“Mrs. Forbes! did he—­did Canon Livingstone tell you that I must leave to-morrow?  I must go to England as fast as possible to do what I can for Dixon.”

“Yes, he told us you were thinking of it, and it was partly that made me force myself in upon you to-night.  I think, my love, you are mistaken in feeling as if you were called upon to do more than what the canon tells me Miss Monro has already done in your name—­engaged the best legal advice, and spared no expense to give the suspected man every chance.  What could you do more even if you were on the spot?  And it is very possible that the trial may have come on before you get home.  Then what could you do?  He would either have been acquitted or condemned; if the former, he would find public sympathy all in his favour; it always is for the unjustly accused.  And if he turns out to be guilty, my dear Ellinor, it will be far better for you to have all the softening which distance can give to such a dreadful termination to the life of a poor man whom you have respected so long.”

But Ellinor spoke again with a kind of irritated determination, very foreign to her usual soft docility: 

“Please just let me judge for myself this once.  I am not ungrateful.  God knows I don’t want to vex one who has been so kind to me as you have been, dear Mrs. Forbes; but I must go—­and every word you say to dissuade me only makes me more convinced.  I am going to Civita to-morrow.  I shall be that much on the way.  I cannot rest here.”

Mrs. Forbes looked at her in grave silence.  Ellinor could not bear the consciousness of that fixed gaze.  Yet its fixity only arose from Mrs. Forbes’ perplexity as to how best to assist Ellinor, whether to restrain her by further advice—­of which the first dose had proved so useless—­or to speed her departure.  Ellinor broke on her meditations: