She covered her face with the corner of her shawl, covered it that he might not even look upon her, and passed back into the parlour without a word. “Heather, my darling, what is this?” she asked. “Morrison came round for me, but could only give the most confused account of what had happened. Tell me, love—tell me all; don’t sit looking at me like that, but speak, dear; what is it?” And she crouched down on the ground, and, winding her arms round Heather’s neck, drew the dear face close to her own. “What is this trouble, sweet?” she persisted; but the only answer Heather could make was—“Oh! Bessie—oh! Bessie,” as she held the locket towards her, moaning, moaning all the while. “Do you wish me to open it?” Bessie inquired; and Heather made a gesture of assent. She had always been a little jealous, and now she was afraid to reveal, with her own hands, the secret it contained. And yet she longed to know—was it portrait or hair—was it an old love token, or a more recent souvenir which her husband had worn next his heart, next where she ought to have been alone? God keep us all from hard and hasty and suspicious judgments. With the man upstairs hovering between life and death, Heather still could not help misjudging him. Worse than the whole of the long ordeal she had passed through was the sight of that golden trifle, which she dared not examine, which Bessie first turned over and then opened, holding it up to the light as she did so. There was a scrap of hair in it—a tiny curl of golden red, and “Lally” engraved in black letters round the edge. “Where did you get this, Heather?” she inquired. “He wore it,” Heather answered. “He! Oh! poor—poor Arthur!” and the tears poured from Bessie’s eyes as she looked upon the trinket. She had never thought to like Arthur greatly, or to be sorry for him over much; but now it seemed to her, thinking of the tragedy which had just been enacted, that no one had ever quite understood him, ever imagined it possible Arthur should find out his error, and try to repair it too late—too late! “Why do you say ‘Poor Arthur?’” Heather broke forth, passionately; “why do you not pity me, finding out, after all, he was wearing next his heart a love token from that woman—that bad, cruel——” “Hush, Heather!—hush—hush!” and Bessie put the open locket into her friend’s hand. “See what it really is—not what you imagine at all.” Incredulously almost, Heather did as she was requested; then “Lally—Lally!” said the bereaved mother; “Lally, Lally!” and she covered the locket with hungry kisses. “I have passed through the bitterness of death to-night, Bessie!” she exclaimed, at length. “I think it must be near morning now.” CHAPTER XIII. SUNSET AT BERRIE DOWN.