But the attention of the young poet was drawn to a pretty scene. Through the window of the farm-house a ruddy light came like a beam of welcome. "They are sitting there," said Earle--"the farmer and his wife, with Mattie. Let us go to the window, Doris; we shall see them, but they will not see us." They drew near to the window. It was the prettiest home scene that was ever imagined. The ruddy light of the fire was reflected in the shining cupboard, in Mark's honest face--it played over the bent head of his wife, and on Mattie's brown hair. Tears came into the young poet's eyes as he stood and watched; for Mark had taken the great Bible down from the shelf, and was reading aloud to his wife and child. They could not distinguish what he was reading, but they heard the deep reverence of his voice, and how it faltered when he came to any words that touched him. They could see the look of reverence on Mattie's face, and the picture was a pleasing one--it touched all that was most noble in the heart of the young poet. "I have seen just such a look as Mattie wears on the pictured faces of the saints," he said; and although Doris affected to laugh at his enthusiasm, she was half jealous of the girl who excited it. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to Earle; he turned quickly to her. "Doris," he said, "raise your face to the quiet skies; let me look into the depths of your eyes. Tell me, before Heaven, are you worthy to return and take your place as sister by the side of that girl, whose every thought is pure, and every word devout?" "I understand you," she said, coldly. "Yes, I am quite worthy to stand by her side." "Swear it, before Heaven!" he cried. And the unhappy girl swore it! CHAPTER XLV. AN APPEAL FOR FORGIVENESS. The same wind that wailed so mournfully round the farm made sad music round the Castle walls. Lady Estelle shuddered as she listened to it; it seemed so full of prophecy, and the prophecy was so full of evil. It moaned and sobbed, then went off into wild cries, then into fitful wails. A scene was passing just then in the drawing-room of the Castle, such as the dead and gone Herefords had never seen. A group of four people were assembled there, the duke looking older by twenty years than when we saw him last, his head bent, his stately figure drooping, as a man droops who has just met the most terrible blow of his lifetime. All the pride and the dignity seemed to have died away from the face of the duchess, his wife; her eyes were swollen with weeping. "I shall never feel myself again," she said to her husband; "it is my death-blow." Two others were in that group--Lady Estelle, whose face was ghastly pale; and standing near her, a tall, handsome man, fair of face, frank, careless and debonair. He was evidently trying to look sorry for something, but had not been able to succeed. "It is so long since," he was saying, in a tone of apology; "but really I fear there can be no excuse offered."