“Is the nursery full of children?”

“There is only one child in it.  Miss Lucy and Master William are with the governess.”

Wilson received Afy with lofty condescension, having Richard Hare in her thoughts.  But Joyce explained that it was all a misapprehension—­that her sister had never been near Richard Hare, but was as indignant against him as they were.  Upon which Wilson grew cordial and chatty, rejoicing in the delightful recreation her tongue would enjoy that evening.

Afy’s account of herself, as to past proceedings, was certainly not the most satisfactory in the world; but, altogether, taken in the present, it was so vast an improvement upon Joyce’s conclusions, that she had not felt so elated for many a day.  When Mr. Carlyle returned home Joyce sought him, and acquainted him with what had happened; that Afy was come; was maid to Lady Mount Severn; and, above all, that she had never been with Richard Hare.

“Ah!  You remember what I said, Joyce,” he remarked.  “That I did not believe Afy was with Richard Hare.”

“I have been telling her so, sir, to be sure, when I informed her what people had believed,” continued Joyce.  “She nearly went into one of her old passions.”

“Does she seem steady, Joyce?”

“I think so, sir—­steady for her.  I was thinking, sir, that as she appears to have turned out so respectable, and is with Lady Mount Severn, you, perhaps, might see no objection to her sleeping here for to-night.  It would be better than for her to go to the inn, as she talks of doing.”

“None at all,” replied Mr. Carlyle.  “Let her remain.”

Later in the evening, after Mr. Carlyle’s dinner, a message came that Afy was to go to him.  Accordingly she proceeded to his presence.

“So, Afy, you have returned to let West Lynne know that you are alive.  Sit down.”

“West Lynne may go a-walking for me in future, sir, for all the heed I shall take of it,” retorted Afy.  “A set of wicked-minded scandal-mongers, to take and say I had gone after Richard Hare!”

“You should not have gone off at all, Afy.”

“Well, sir, that was my business, and I chose to go.  I could not stop in the cottage after that night’s work.”

“There is a mystery attached to that night’s work, Afy,” observed Mr. Carlyle; “a mystery that I cannot fathom.  Perhaps you can help me out.”

“What mystery, sir?” returned Afy.

Mr. Carlyle leaned forward, his arms on the table.  Afy had taken a chair at the other end of it.  “Who was it that committed the murder?” he demanded, in a grave and somewhat imperative tone.

Afy stared some moments before she replied, astonished at the question.  “Who committed the murder, sir?” she uttered at length.  “Richard Hare committed it.  Everybody knows that.”

“Did you see it done?”

“No,” replied Afy.  “If I had seen it, the fright and horror would have killed me.  Richard Hare quarreled with my father, and drew the gun upon him in passion.”