Dr. Hartley, who had remained standing in amazement through the latter part of this scene, now hurried to the assistance of the swooning girl. But Ralph Houston, shaking off the dreadful apathy that had bound his faculties, hastened to intercept him. Kneeling beside the prostrate form, he lifted and placed it in an easier position. Then, turning to arrest the doctor’s steps, he said: “Before you come nearer to her, tell me this: What do you believe of her?” “That she is a fallen girl,” replied Dr. Hartley. “Then, no nearer on your life and soul,” said Ralph, lifting his hand to bar the doctor’s further approach. “What do you mean, Captain Houston?” “That she still wears the betrothal ring I placed upon her finger. That I am, as yet, her affianced husband. And, by that name, I claim the right to protect her in this, her bitter extremity; to defend her bruised and broken heart from the wounds of unkind eyes! Had you had faith in her, charity for her, I should have accepted, with thanks, your help. As it is, you have none; do not let her awake to find a hostile countenance bending over her!” “As you please, sir. But, remember, that if the assistance of a physician is absolutely required, my services, and my home also, await the needs of Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter,” said Dr. Hartley, turning to depart. Frank also, at a sign from his brother, withdrew. Ralph was alone with Margaret. He raised her light form, shuddering, amid all his deeper distress, to feel how light it was, and bore her down the wooded hill, to the great spreading oak, under which was the green mound of her mother’s last sleeping place. He laid her down so that her head rested on this mound as on a pillow, and then went to a spring near by to bring water, with which, kneeling, he bathed her face. Long and assiduous efforts were required before she recovered from that mortal swoon. When at length, with a deep and shuddering sigh, and a tremor that ran through all her frame, she opened her eyes, she found Ralph Houston kneeling by her side, bending with solicitous interest over her. With only a dim and partial recollection of some great agony passed, she raised her eyes and stretched forth her arms, murmuring, in tender, pleading tones: “Ralph, my friend, my savior, you do not believe me guilty? You know me so thoroughly; you always trusted me; you are sure that I am innocent?” “Margaret,” he said, in a voice of the deepest pain, “I pillowed your head here above your mother’s bosom; had I not believed you guiltless of any deeper sin than inconstancy of affection, I should not have laid you in this sacred place.” “Inconstancy! Ralph?”