"Not at all," said a quiet voice overhead and the eyes of Julian, blazing upward, met Watson's blazing down. "Come," said the player's wife to Ramsey, "come away." "I won't," tearfully laughed Ramsey, and Mrs. Gilmore and the squire's sister had to laugh with her. "The lie," said Hugh, "will keep. Your letter is such that the bishop declines to touch it." The bishop swelled. Julian recoiled and, glancing behind him, confronted his mother. "My son," she began, but he whirled back to Hugh. "You keyhole spy!" he wailed; "you eavesdropping viper!" Ramsey came tiptoeing along the edge of the pantry roof to light down between them but he imperiously motioned her off, still glaring at Hugh and gnawing his lip with chagrin. "Oh, never mind!" was all he could choke out; "never you mind!" He ceased again, to catch what Hugh was replying to him. Said Hugh: "I'll take your letter and send it with my own." "No, sir! No, you grovelling sneak!" "Mais, yass!" called Madame Hayle from her place, and Ramsey laughed from hers, but a new voice arrested every one's attention. The bishop wheeled round to it with an exclamation of dismay that was echoed even by Julian. In the sick-room door stood Lucian, half dressed and feebly clinging to the jamb. "Let him do it, Jule!" he cried in a tremulous thin voice. "Take the whelp at his word! Don't you see? Don't you see, Jule? We'll have him in a nine hole. It'll be hell for him if he puts it through and worse if he slinks it!" He tried to put off the bishop's sustaining arm. A light of discernment filled Julian's face. There was no time to ponder. He had always trusted Lucian for the cunninger insight and did it now though Lucian lay in the bishop's arms limp and senseless. He drew forth the letter. Gayly stooping over the skylights Ramsey reached for it and passed it to Hugh. Julian sprang up to the bishop, who had borne Lucian into the sick-room and now filled its door again, waving a cheerful reassurance. "A mere swoon," said the bishop; "all right again." "It may be all right up there," the squire's sister began to say to the actor's wife--and hushed. But Ramsey had heard, as she watched her mother hurry below to the young Marburg brother lying as limp and faintly pink in death as her brother up here in life; heard, and thought of the perils in store for Hugh and his kin and her and hers unless this sweet, wise mother could charm them away as sunlight charms away pestilence. Mr. Gilmore called her: "Come, we've lots to do."