"They cannot possibly convict him of murder, can they?" "My father thinks that the verdict will be manslaughter, or, at the worst, murder under strong provocation; but it is impossible to tell." Awdrey looked again anxiously at his companion. Her pallor and distress aroused emotion in his breast which he found almost impossible to quiet. "I'm sorry to my heart that you know about this," he said. "You are not fit to stand any of the roughness of life." "What folly!" she answered, with passion. "What am I that I should accept the smooth and reject the rough? I tell you what I would like to do. I'd like to go this very moment to see that poor Mr. Everett, in order to tell him how deeply sorry I am for him. To ask him to tell me the story from first to last, from his point of view. To clear him from this awful stain. And I'd like to lay flowers over the breast of that dead boy. Oh, I can't bear it. Why is the world so full of trouble and pain?" She burst into sudden tears. "Don't, don't! Oh! Margaret, you're an angel. You're too good for this earth," said Awdrey. "Nonsense," she answered; "let me have my cry out; I'll be all right in a minute." Her brief tears were quickly over. She dashed them aside and rose to her feet. "I hear the children shouting to me," she said. "I'm in no humor to meet them. Where shall we go?" "This way," said Awdrey quickly; "no one knows the way through this copse but me." He gave her his hand, pushed aside the trees, and they soon found themselves in a dim little world of soft green twilight. There was a narrow path on which they could not walk abreast. Awdrey now took the lead, Margaret following him. After walking for half a mile the wood grew thinner, and they found themselves far away from their companions, and on a part of the plain which was quite new ground to Margaret. "How lovely and enchanting it is here," she said, giving a low laugh of pleasure. "I am glad you like it," said Awdrey. "I discovered that path to these heights only a week ago. I never told a soul about it. For all you can tell your feet may now be treading on virgin ground." As Awdrey spoke he panted slightly, and put his hand to his brow. "Is anything the matter with you?" asked Margaret. "Nothing; I was never better in my life." "You don't look well; you're changed." "Don't say that," he answered, a faint ring of anxiety in his voice. She gazed at him earnestly. "You are," she repeated. "I don't quite recognize the expression in your eyes." "Oh, I'm all right," he replied, "only----" "Only what? Do tell me." "I don't want to revert to that terrible tragedy again," he said, after a pause. "There is something, however, in connection with it which surprises myself." "What is that?" "I don't seem to feel the horror of it. I feel everything else; your sorrow, for instance--the beauty of the day--the gladness and fulness of life, but I don't feel any special pang about that poor dead fellow. It's queer, is it not?"