“If there was anything to confide,” Rosalind said under her breath. But he went on. “And now your father has sent for his lawyer--to do something, to change something. I can’t tell what he means to do, but it will be trouble in any case. And you, Rosalind--I said so before, you--must not stay here.” “If you mean that I am to leave my mother, Uncle John--” “Hush! not your mother. My dear, you must allow others to judge for you here. Had you been her child it would have been different: but we must take thought for your best interests. Who is that driving in at the gate? Why, it is Blake already. I wonder if a second summons has been sent. He was not expected till to-morrow. This looks worse and worse, Rosalind.” “Uncle John, if you will let me, I will run in another way. I--don’t wish to meet Mr. Blake.” “Hallo, Rosalind! you don’t mean to say that Charley Blake has ever presumed-- Ah! this comes of not having a mother’s care.” “It is nothing of the kind,” she cried, drawing her hand violently from his arm. “He hates her because she never would-- Oh, how can you be so cruel, so prejudiced, so unjust?” In her vehemence Rosalind pushed him away from her with a force which made his steady, middle-aged figure almost swerve, and darted across the park away from him just in time to make it evident to Mr. Blake, driving his dog-cart quickly to make up to the group in advance, that it was to avoid him Miss Trevanion had fled. “How is he?” was the eager question he put as he came up to John Trevanion. “I hope I am not too late.” “For what? If it is my brother you mean, I hear he is a little better,” said John, coldly. “Then I suppose it is only one of his attacks,” the new-comer said, with a slight tone of disappointment; not that he had any interest in the death of Mr. Trevanion, but that the fall from the excitement of a great crisis to the level of the ordinary is always disagreeable. “I thought from the telegram this morning there was no time to lose.” “Who sent you the telegram this morning?” “Madam Trevanion, of course,” said the young man. This reply took John Trevanion so much by surprise that he went on without a word. She knew very well what Blake’s visit portended to herself. But what a strange, philosophical stoic was this woman, who did not hesitate herself to summon, to hasten, lest he should lose the moment in which she could still be injured, the executioner of her fate. A sort of awe came over John. He begun to blame himself for his miserable doubts of such a woman. There was something in this silent impassioned performance of everything demanded from her that impressed the imagination. After a few minutes’ slow pacing along, restraining his horse, Blake threw the reins to his groom, and, jumping down, walked on by John Trevanion’s side. “I suppose there is no such alarming hurry, then,” he said. “Of course you know what’s up now?” “If you mean what are my brother’s intentions, I know nothing about them,” John said.