"Can it be one of the dogs?" she thought, as she pushed aside the thick-growing shrubs and made her way "cross country," as she would have described it, in the direction of the gasping sounds. But she was quickly undeceived. On the rough bench lay or crouched Imogen, her face hidden, her whole figure shaken by sobs, now and then broken by low moans, equally piteous to hear. The Helmonts were not given to vehement grief or vehement feeling of any kind, except when Beatrix, the only really hot-tempered one, got into a passion, and the display of it was almost like an unknown language to them. In Trixie it seldom roused anything but a sort of contempt. But if this was her first sensation on seeing Imogen's prostration of suffering, it was soon mingled with other emotions. Pity of a kind, and quickly succeeding to it remorse--of a kind also--and speedily overmastering both, extreme and unreasoning fear. "Imogen," she called out, though not very loudly, and instantly concealing herself again. "Imogen, what is the matter?" But there was no reply. Trixie's terror increased. "Can she be having some sort of a fit?" she said to herself; and as there was a good deal of cowardice, moral and otherwise, mixed up with the rough animal courage of the girl, no sooner had the idea struck her, than she turned and fled, rushing off, heedless of aught else, in search of some one or something, she scarce knew what. At the turn of the path--the same path down which Imogen had wandered, and which, it will be remembered, led into a side road to the stables-- Beatrix ran full tilt against a man, walking quickly towards the house. It was the younger of her cousins, by good-luck; for, in her state of excitement, she would scarcely have cared who it was--silly Percy Calthorp, or Newnham, the stately butler, would have suited her equally well. "Robin, oh, Robin!" she screamed, "do come! I believe Imogen Wentworth has gone out of her mind, or else she's dying in a fit." CHAPTER TWELVE. THE BULL BY THE HORNS. For so young a man, Robin Winchester was possessed of a remarkable amount of presence of mind. Added to which, he was not, as will be seen, wholly unprepared for a _denouement_, probably stormy, and very certainly painful, of the complicated state of affairs as to which, Cassandra-like, he had lifted up his voice. At Trixie's appeal he turned and walked rapidly back in the direction whence she had come, without speaking; he had no idea of wasting his breath in words, and for another reason. So strongly was he imbued with the suspicion that the girl beside him had been "at it again with one of her odious practical jokes," that he doubted his own self-control should he once allow his indignation to find words. He had no cause to ask her for direction. Two or three moments brought them to a spot whence the pitiful, and, it must be allowed, almost alarming sounds were clearly audible.