sir," replied Edith loftily, "you will never find one strong enough to convince me that Miss Falkland had any motive for what she may have accidentally done."

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"Well, however that may be," said Mr. Percival, we will not discuss the subject any more at present; we will hear what Miss Falkland has to say before we condemn her."

When Frances went to her room to dress for dinner, she felt shocked at the duplicity of her conduct, and the cruel injustice she was guilty of to Edith's friend; she even yet thought that it was not too late to speak.

"To-morrow," she said,-" to-morrow morning, after I have had a night's rest."

But she had no longer any confidence in herself, and while she made this resolution she felt sure she would not keep it. She had still a hope that Agnes would clear herself, and that she would thus be relieved from this, the worst part of her deceit. She was on the point of giving way to a hysterical fit of weeping, but remembering that she must soon appear at the dinner - table, she made a violent effort to recover herself, and exerting all her powers of dissimulation she appeared in the drawing-room, and endeavoured to be as gay as usual.

The dinner seemed to Frances interminable, and everyone was silent and thoughtful, except Wilfred, who talked to anyone who would listen to him, and made laudable exertions to raise the spirits of the party.

When the servants had left the room, and dessert was on the table, he turned to Frances, who sat beside him, saying:

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By the bye, Miss Frances, I have discovered one of your mischievous freaks."

She blushed scarlet, but smilingly demanded an explanation.

"Why," said he, "when everyone else was in such consternation about this wonderful alarm, why did you keep out of the way? Where were you hiding yourself all the time, I should like to know? Ah, I know I am right; your very countenance betrays you. You rang the bell; you cannot deny it."

Frances said nothing, for if she did not allow that she had rung the bell, how could she account for her absence, which she saw had been observed. In reply to Wilfred's remark she only laughed, and by her silence pleaded guilty to the charge.

O, Frances, Frances, one step farther in deceit; how one falsehood leads to another!

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Frances," said Mr. Percival, "perhaps you are not aware that that bell ought never to be touched except on occasions of the greatest emergency. The only time I can remember its being rung in my life was once when, through the treachery of a servant, a large party of burglars had entered the house, and it was necessary to rouse the whole neighbourhood. Your foolish experiment this morning was particularly unfortunate, as it was during my absence from the study that this will was destroyed; but I have

no doubt you will be more thoughtful for the future."

It had not been Wilfred's intention to call forth so serious a lecture; he felt vexed at having hit on so unlucky a theme, and tried to turn the conversation. Frances submitted quietly, feeling that it was not half what she merited, though at any other time she would have been very much distressed at being thus spoken to by her uncle. During the remainder of the evening she was as sprightly as usual, and no one could observe the struggle which it cost her not to betray the agony she was enduring.

CHAPTER XII.

BY THE BROOK-SIDE.

"And peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;

But guilt was my grim chamberlain,
That lighted me to bed.

WHEN at length, released from the torturing restraint which she had been forced to put upon her feelings, Frances reached her room, she flung her window wide open and, kneeling, gazed into the starry sky. A lovely landscape was spread far before her, while immediately beneath lay the luxuriant gardens of Ferncliffe, lighted up by the soft radiance shed around by the "queen of night." A delicious scent of violets and lilies-of-the-valley stole in through the open window; but Frances heeded it not she saw not with her artist's eye the beauty of the scene before her; she noted not the splendour of the silvery moon; she heard not the sweet but melancholy tones of the nightingale, nor the solemn sound of the old church-clock tolling the hour of midnight. No; her eyes were

fixed on one white spot, half-hidden by the trees beneath; her thoughts were with the fair young girl so calmly sleeping in that little cottage; and she shuddered at the recollection of all the misery which she by her guilty silence was about to bring upon her. She envied the sweet repose of nature, and remembered how four-and-twenty hours before she had looked upon the same scene with feelings of enthusiastic admiration and delight. As she was thus lost in her own most painful thoughts she heard the door open, and turning suddenly round confronted Edith, clad in her white dressing-gown, her black hair streaming around her.

"My dear Frances, you should not keep the window open so long; you will certainly take cold. I heard you open it some time ago, and thought you would shut it immediately, but I believe you have been kneeling there for a quarter of an hour; though the day has been so fine a one, it is far from warm to-night, and—O, Frances, you look so pale! I am sure you are not well.”

Frances did indeed feel ill, though she would not acknowledge it to Edith.

"Pale?" she replied; "of course I do by this ghastly light; so do you look as pale as death. Do go to bed, my dear, and don't trouble yourself about me," she added, kissing her affectionately.

Edith shut the window, and having bid her cousin "good-night," returned to her own room.

Frances waited a moment, and then cautiously bolted the door. She turned to the glass to see whether her face really betrayed her inward suffer