young fellow with broad shoulders--he had held himself sturdily as an Englishman should, when he walked off, an innocent man, to meet an awful doom. Hetty, as she watched, crushed down the cry in her heart--it had clamored to save this man. There was a louder cry there--a fiercer instinct. The Squire belonged to her own people--she was like a subject, and he was her king--to the people of Grandcourt the king could do nothing wrong. They were old-fashioned in the little village, and had somewhat the feeling of serfs to their feudal lord. Hetty shared the tradition of her race. But over and above these minor matters, the unhappy girl loved Robert Awdrey with a fierce passion. She would rather die herself than see him die. When she saw Everett arrested, she watched the whole proceeding in dull amazement. She wondered why the Squire had not acted a man's part. Why did he not deliver himself up to the course of justice? He had killed Frere in a moment of mad passion. Hetty's heart throbbed. Could that passion have been evoked on her account? Of course, he would own to his sin. He had not done so; on the contrary, he had gone to a picnic. He had been seen walking about with the young lady whom he loved. Did Robert Awdrey really love Margaret Douglas? "If that is the case, why should not I give him up?" thought Hetty. "He cares nothing for me. I am less than the thistle under his feet. Why should I save him? Why should Mr. Everett die because of him? The Squire cares nothing for me. Why should I sin on his account?" These thoughts, when they came to her, were quickly hurled aside by others. "I'd die twenty times over rather than he should suffer," thought the girl. "He shan't die, he's my king, and I'm his subject. It does not matter whether he loves me or not, he shan't die. Yes, he loves that beautiful Miss Douglas--she belongs to his set, and she'll be his wife. Perhaps she thinks that she loves him. Oh, oh!" Hetty laughed wildly to herself. "After all, she doesn't know what real love is. She little guesses what I feel; she little guesses that I hold his life in my hands. O God, keep me from going mad!" It was dark when Hetty re-entered the Inn. The taproom was the scene of noisy excitement. It was crowded with eager and interested villagers. The murder was the one and only topic of conversation. Armitage was busy attending to his numerous guests, and Mrs. Armitage kept going backward and forward between the taproom and the little kitchen at the back. When she saw Hetty she called out to her in a sharp tone.