"George, I should like to touch you, but--I cannot! I beg you to forgive the selfishness of my grief--my mind is confused--I shall be better soon. God has sent us a great sorrow, in which I know you are as innocent as I am. I am very sorry--I think that is all." And I put my hand to my head, where a sharp pain was beginning to throb. Mr. Manners spoke, emphatically-- "God bless you, Dorolice! You know I promised. Thank you, for ever!" "If you fancy you have any reason to thank me," I said, "do me this favour. Whatever happens, believe that I believe!" I could bear no more, so I went out of the kitchen. As I went I heard a murmur of pity run through the room, and I knew that they were pitying--not the dead man, but me; and me--not for my dead brother, but for his murderer. When I got into the passage, the mist that had still been dark before my eyes suddenly became darker, and I remember no more. When my senses returned, Harriet had come home. From the first she would never hear George's name except to accuse him with frantic bitterness of poor Edmund's death; and as nothing would induce me to credit his guilt, the subject was as much as possible avoided. I cannot dwell on those terrible days. I was very ill for some time, and after I had come down-stairs, one day I found a newspaper containing the following paragraph, which I copy here, as it is the shortest and least painful way of telling you the facts of poor Edmund's death. "THE MURDER AT CROSSDALE HALL. "Universal horror has been excited in the neighbourhood by the murder of Edmund Lascelles, Esq., of Crossdale Hall. Mr. Lascelles was last seen alive a little after ten o'clock on Friday night, at which time he left the house alone, and was not seen again living. At the inquest on Saturday, James Crosby, a farm labourer, gave the following evidence:--