“No, _no_, NO!” burst in a low, frightened tone from the girl’s lips. “He must not come. Write to him instantly and tell him so. Mr. Tressalia, I could not bear that of all things in the world. I will not see him. He must not come. I will hide from him. Oh! why must I suffer so?” The words ended in a low, heart-broken sob. She had clasped both hands convulsively around her companion’s arm in her excitement, and was now shivering and trembling so that he was greatly alarmed. The brightness and exceeding beauty that had been hers when he first saw her had only been the result of a momentary excitement after all. He had flattered himself that she was really better and stronger, both in body and spirit, but now he saw that her poor heart was just as sore and wounded as ever, and that her fatal love was still eating at her vitals. Earle, he knew from the letter he had so lately received, was suffering in the same way, and what these poor tried ones were to do all their future was a sore trouble to him. “Be calm, dear child,” he said, in low, quiet tones. “Earle shall do just as you wish. Come and walk with me until your nerves are a little more steady.” He unclasped those locked fingers from his arm, and drawing one hand within it, led her away into a retired path, and talked gravely of other things, until he saw the wild look fade from her eyes, the hand on his arm grow quiet, and knew that her intense excitement was gradually subsiding. But it hurt him deeply to hear every few minutes a deep, shuddering, sobbing sigh come from her pale lips—something as a child breathes after it has exhausted itself with weeping and fallen asleep. He would gladly have restored happiness both to Earle and her if he could have done so, even to the sacrificing of his own life, but he could not—each must bear his own burden. It seemed as if they had been beset on every hand with troubles during the past few years, fulfilling those words of Shakespeare’s: “When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions.” “Earle has had an adventure. Shall I tell you about it?” he asked, when at length she had apparently grown quite calm, and intuitively knowing that she would like to hear more. “If you please.” “There has been an attempt made to rob Wycliffe, and but for his calmness and bravery great mischief would have been done.” “Ah! he was always brave; but—but I hope he was not injured,” Editha cried, a feeling of faintness stealing over her. “Bless you, no; else he would not now be talking of a change. He not only prevented a robbery and protected himself, but he has captured the robber.” “I am sure that is good news,” she said, now deeply interested. “And, Editha, who do you suppose the robber proved to be?” “I am sure I cannot imagine; and yet you—you cannot mean——”