"Come and look here, Hester," said Lylie slowly, feeling some of the sediment from the pan between her finger and thumb, as she spoke, "Did you ever see oatmeal so white?" "Oatmeal!" said Hester, "why, 'tes as white as flour." "'Tes more gritty'n flour. I see et all, Hester. Have 'ee never heard that poison's white and gritty? Measter's poisoned, and tes Miss that's done et." A slight sound came from the kitchen door and both women looked round, but Sophie, whose foot had been on the threshold, had turned and fled upstairs to the door of her father's room again, where she flung herself on the floor and pressed her forehead against the wooden panel. In that long drawn moment of listening the truth had rushed in over her consciousness--and overwhelmed reason and self-control. The door opened and the apothecary stumbled over her. "Miss Bendigo--" he began in compassion, then some words to which the Squire had just given vent flashed back at him and he hesitated. "Bring her in," ordered the patient hoarsely. Sophie scrambled to her feet and went towards the bed. She fell on her knees beside it. "Oh, sir, forgive me, I didn't know, I didn't know," she babbled, "send me where you will, only forgive me and get well . . . I'll never see or hear from or write to him more, if you'll but forgive me, I shall be happy. Papa, papa!" Over Sophie's head the Squire beckoned the apothecary into the room. Then: "I do forgive thee," he murmured, speaking with difficulty and veiling his eyes with his thin wrinkled lids, "but thou should'st have remembered I am your father. As for the villain Crandon, hadst thou loved me thou wouldst curse him and the ground he walks on." "Oh, sir," said Sophie, to whom the words of pardon alone had penetrated, "your kindness strikes at my soul. Sir, on my knees I pray you will not curse me." "_I_ curse thee!" gasped the Squire, forcing his distorted mouth into a semblance of the old bland smile, "no, child, I bless thee and hope God will bless thee, and I pray thou mayest live to repent and amend. . . . Leave me, lest thou should'st say something to thy prejudice--" apparently, thought the apothecary, who was himself trembling with horror, this martyred father had forgotten the presence of a listener. "Go to the clergyman, Mr. Le Petyt, he will take care of thee. Alas, poor man, I am sorry for him. . . ." "Papa, I am innocent, I swear to you I am. I never knew. I am innocent of this. . . ." "I fear thou art not quite innocent and that there is some powder in such hands as will appear against thee. Harvey take away my poor misguided child." Sophie stumbled blindly from the room and went upstairs. Mr. Harvey hesitated a moment, saw the patient almost comatose, and went down to the kitchen. There Lylie still pored over the saucepan, which she thrust out at him. "See, Mr. Harvey," she demanded, "what's this stuff in wi' the gruel? Can 'ee tell me that?"