Again Frank Raynor--and this time sorely against his will--sat at Mrs. St. Clare's brilliant dinner-table. He could see why she had made so great a point of his coming: only one gentleman was present besides himself. In fact, there was only Frank in all Trennach to fall back upon. Dr. Raynor never dined out: the Rector pleaded ill-health. Most of the guests who had been staying in the house had left it this morning after their two nights' sojourn: those remaining--General Sir Arthur Beauchamp, Lady and Miss Beauchamp, and a young married woman, Mrs. Fox--were to leave on the morrow. It fell to Frank's lot to take in Lady Beauchamp: she it was who had expressed doubts as to the stability of young ladies' hearts, if exposed to the attractions of Mr. Raynor. Margaret, as it chanced, sat on Frank's left hand; and Margaret, for the time being, was supremely happy. "Are you better than you were on Tuesday night, Mr. Raynor?" she took occasion to ask him in a whisper, when a buzz of conversation was going on. "Better? I was not----" not ill, Frank was about to respond in surprise, and then recollected himself. "Oh, thank you, yes, Margaret. I was rather out of sorts that night." "Mr. Raynor, what is this story about some man being lost?" asked Mrs. St. Clare, from the head of the table. "One of the miners, we hear, has mysteriously disappeared and cannot be found." Frank's face flushed hotly, and he would have given the world to avoid the subject. But he could not: and he related the particulars. "But where is it supposed that he can be, this Josiah Bell?" asked the general. "Where should _you_ think he is, Mr. Raynor?" Perhaps no one at the table, with the exception of Margaret, noticed that the young surgeon was somewhat agitated by the topic: that his breath seemed a little laboured as he answered the repeated questions, and that his complexion changed from red to pale. Margaret silently wondered why the disappearance of a miner should so affect him. "Are there any old pits, used out and abandoned, that the man could have fallen into?" asked the sensible general. A strangely-vivid flush now on Frank Raynor's face. A marked hesitation in his voice, as he replied. "Not--not any--that are easy of access, I fancy, Sir Arthur." "Well, the man must be somewhere, dead or alive. You say it is not at all thought that he would run away." "Oh no; his friends say he would not be likely to do that." "He has a very beautiful daughter, has he not?" spoke Lydia to Frank, from the opposite side of the table. "Yes, she is nice-looking." "Nice-looking is not the word for it, Mr. Raynor--as we are told," persisted Lydia. "We hear she is strictly, faultlessly beautiful. Fancy that, for the daughter of a common miner!" Miss St. Clare's tone seemed to savour of mockery--as her tones often did. Frank, straightforward and true-hearted to the core, answered rather warmly.