“Have you no other answer to give?” Alban inquired. “I answer--No!” she said, with a sudden outburst of anger. There, the matter dropped. While she spoke in reply to Mr. Wyvil, Francine had confronted him without embarrassment. When Alban interposed, she never looked at him--except when he provoked her to anger. Did she remember that the man who was questioning her, was also the man who had suspected her of writing the anonymous letter? Alban was on his guard against himself, knowing how he disliked her. But the conviction in his own mind was not to be resisted. In some unimaginable way, Francine was associated with Emily’s flight from the house. The answer to the telegram sent from the railway station had not arrived, when Alban took his departure for London. Cecilia’s suspense began to grow unendurable: she looked to Mirabel for comfort, and found none. His office was to console, and his capacity for performing that office was notorious among his admirers; but he failed to present himself to advantage, when Mr. Wyvil’s lovely daughter had need of his services. He was, in truth, too sincerely anxious and distressed to be capable of commanding his customary resources of ready-made sentiment and fluently-pious philosophy. Emily’s influence had awakened the only earnest and true feeling which had ever ennobled the popular preacher’s life. Toward evening, the long-expected telegram was received at last. What could be said, under the circumstances, it said in these words: “Safe at home--don’t be uneasy about me--will write soon.” With that promise they were, for the time, forced to be content. BOOK THE FIFTH--THE COTTAGE. CHAPTER XLIX. EMILY SUFFERS. Mrs. Ellmother--left in charge of Emily’s place of abode, and feeling sensible of her lonely position from time to time--had just thought of trying the cheering influence of a cup of tea, when she heard a cab draw up at the cottage gate. A violent ring at the bell followed. She opened the door--and found Emily on the steps. One look at that dear and familiar face was enough for the old servant. “God help us,” she cried, “what’s wrong now?” Without a word of reply, Emily led the way into the bedchamber which had been the scene of Miss Letitia’s death. Mrs. Ellmother hesitated on the threshold. “Why do you bring me in here?” she asked. “Why did you try to keep me out?” Emily answered. “When did I try to keep you out, miss?” “When I came home from school, to nurse my aunt. Ah, you remember now! Is it true--I ask you here, where your old mistress died--is it true that my aunt deceived me about my father’s death? And that you knew it?” There was dead silence. Mrs. Ellmother trembled horribly--her lips dropped apart--her eyes wandered round the room with a stare of idiotic terror. “Is it her ghost tells you that?” she whispered. “Where is her ghost? The room whirls round and round, miss--and the air sings in my ears.”