"It means--that I must see--Arthur," she said; and for the first time since she had begun speaking, her voice shook. "I must see him, and tell him all the story of the pendant--all--the real necessity for hiding is over," she added under her breath; "it is only cowardice to avoid Arthur now." "There is one thing that puzzles me,"; the doctor left his post at the foot of the bed, and, coming to his patient's side, laid a finger on her wrist. "I do not want you to worry yourself now, with any more thoughts and questionings. Only answer me this one thing. If you knew your sister's married name, why did you never connect Miss Moore with her?" "I did not know her real name," was the reply; "she married a singer. She met him in town. I was a young girl at home in the country, and I never saw him. In the singing world he was known as Signor Donaldo; and we only knew of him by that name." "My father's name was Donald," Christina exclaimed. "And I knew that once he had sung, but before I can remember anything he had lost his voice; he played the organ in the village church, and he taught music, too, and singing as well. But he was never called anything but Moore. I never knew him by any other name. Mother has often told me he could not bear to remember the time when he had a beautiful voice; and I think he must have dropped his singing name, when he lost his voice." "And he and Helen--were happy?" The words seemed to break involuntarily from Margaret's lips. "I think father and mother never stopped being lovers," Christina answered simply. "They were just the whole world to one another, just the whole whole world." CHAPTER XIX. "PER INCERTAS, CERTA AMOR." Sir Arthur glanced round the bleak little wayside station with disapproval. The December day was grey and raw; the December wind blustered along the exposed platform, in chilling tempestuous gusts; and the upland country that stretched to right and left of the line, wore a highly uninviting aspect. "Now, what is Margaret doing in this desolate part of the world?" he reflected irritably; "and why does she send me such a ridiculously mysterious telegram? Women have no sense of proportion; they must always indulge in subtleties and mysteries." These irascible meditations brought him to the station exit, before which stood a closed brougham, the only conveyance of any sort within sight. Beyond the tiny station, a white road wound away over the moors, but, excepting for two cottages on the brow of the first hill, there was no sign to be seen of any human habitation. "Has that carriage been sent to meet Sir Arthur Congreve?" the old gentleman enquired of the one porter lounging by the gate, and the man nodded before replying with bucolic slowness:-- "That carriage be come from t' 'White Horse' up to Graystone, to fetch Sir Arthur Congreve. Driver he told me so hisself."