"It isn't _that_ which troubles me," said Lesley, trying to steady her voice. "It is--that you have to bear the brunt of it all. If it had not been for me you would never have been here. It has been my fault!" "Not your fault, child," said her father. "The fault did not lie with you, but with that unfortunate young man, for whom I am truly sorry. Don't be morbid, Lesley; look things straight in the face, and don't blame yourself unless you are perfectly sure that you deserve to be blamed." And there the conference ended, for Miss Brooke arrived at that moment, and Lesley thought it advisable to leave the choice of a subject of conversation in her hands. Caspar had many visitors that day, and many letters of advice and condolence, for few men were blessed--or cursed--with as many friends as he. Among the letters that reached him was a note without signature, which he read hastily, and as hastily concealed when he had read it. This note was written in uneven, crooked characters, as if the writer's hand had shaken as she wrote, and ran as follows:-- "I ought not to write, but how can I keep silence? There is nothing that I am not capable of bearing for my friends. If you will but confide in me--I am ready to do, to bear, to suffer anything--to forgive anything. Let me see you: I can then speak more freely. If you should be set at liberty in a day or two, I shall hear. You can then come to me: if not, I will come to you. But you need have no fear for me: I shall take means to prevent recognition." The envelope was plain and of common texture; but the note-paper was hand-made; with a faint, fine odor as of some sweet-smelling Eastern wood, and bore in one corner the letters "R. R.," intertwined in deep blue tints. There was no doubt in Caspar's mind as to the person from whom it came. He received it about three o'clock in the afternoon. If he wished to decline the proposed interview, he knew that he must write at once. In his heart he knew also that it would be better for him and better for her that the interview should be declined. What had he to do with Rosalind Romaine? He was accused of murdering her brother: it was not seemly that she should see him--even although the world were not to know of the visit. The world would know sooner or later--that was the worst of it: ultimately, the world knows everything. But why should she wish to see him? Had she information to impart? If she had, it would be foolish, from merely conventional reasons, to refuse her admittance, supposing that she really wished to come. And in a day or two at most he would certainly be able to go, if necessary, to her.