They had been utterly happy only a little while ago, but since that confession of Churchill’s, the wife’s heart had been burdened with a secret grief. And to-day she felt that hidden care keenly. Something in her husband’s manner had suggested concealed anxieties, fears, cares which he could not or would not share with her. ‘If he did but know how loyal I could be to him,’ she thought, ‘he would hardly shrink from trusting me.’ Viola was full of excitement, and quite ferociously disposed towards the burglar. ‘I suppose to-day’s business is only a kind of rehearsal,’ she said, gaily, ‘and that we shall have to give our evidence again at Bodmin assizes. And some pert young barrister on the Western Circuit will browbeat me and try to make me contradict myself, and make fun of me, and ask if I had put my hair in papers, or had unplaited my chignon when I ran downstairs after the burglar.’ ‘I should like to see him do it,’ muttered Sir Lewis, in a vengeful tone. They were in Penwyn village by this time, the old-fashioned straggling village, two rows of cottages scattered apart on the wide high road, a tiny Methodist chapel in a field, the pound, the lock-up, big enough for one culprit, and the village inn, attached to which there was the justice-room, a long narrow upper chamber, with a low ceiling. All the inhabitants of Penwyn had turned out to see the great folks. It was like an Irish crowd, children, old women, and young matrons with infants in their arms. The children had just turned out from the pretty Gothic school-house, which Mr. Penwyn had built for them. They bobbed deferentially as their patroness descended from her carriage, and a murmur of praise and love ran through the little crowd—sweetest chorus to a woman’s ear. ‘We ought to be happy in this fair land,’ thought Madge, as her heart thrilled at the sight of her people. ‘It is like ingratitude to God to keep one secret care when He has blessed us so richly.’ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XV ‘QUI PEUT SOUS LE SOLEIL TROMPER SA DESTINEE?’ CHURCHILL was waiting at the inn door to receive his wife. He had ridden across on his favourite horse Tarpan—a long-necked, raking bay, over sixteen hands, and a great jumper—a horse with a tremendous stride, just such a brute as Lenore’s lover might have bestridden in that awful nightride. ‘Is the man here, Churchill?’ Madge asked, anxiously. ‘Yes, love. There is nothing to be uneasy about,’ answered her husband, replying to her looks rather than to her words. ‘Yet you seem anxious, Churchill.’ ‘Only in my magisterial capacity. Tresillian is here. We shall commit this fellow in no time. It will only need a few words from Viola and Sir Lewis.’