"No better, and no worse, miss; but it wasn't about that. I leaves you this day month, miss; and as much sooner as you can suit yourself." "Very well, Liza. That will do." "No, miss!" cried the girl excitedly, "it won't do. 'Cusing people o' being thiefs when it was nothing but a bit of a bundle o' old rags and things I saved, as might ha' been burnt, and they bought 'em of me, and I bought the ribbons o' them." "I do not wish to hear any more about that transaction, Liza; but I am glad to hear you can explain it away. You should have been frank at first." "So ought other people, miss, if you'll excuse me; and not go taking away a poor servant's character by alluding to money left on no chimley-pieces as I never took." "Liza!" "Yes, miss; I know, and thinking o' sending for the police." "I had too much feeling for you, Liza, and for your future character. I did not even send you away." "I should think not indeed, miss. Mother and me's as honest as the day; and if you want police, send for 'em for them as has been picking and stealing." "My good girl, what do you mean?" "Oh, you don't know o' course, miss; but you very soon will. And him with his fine airs, and his boots never shiny enough. He'll find out the difference now; and as to me staying in a home like this where one of us is a thief, I've got my character to look after, and--" There was a sharp knock and ring, and from force of habit, Liza turned. "In a month, miss, if you please; and now you're going to hear what come an hour ago, and is all over the town by now." Louise caught at the table to steady herself, and her lips parted to question the girl, but she had hurried out of the room. The door was opened, a deep male voice was heard, and directly after Duncan Leslie hurried in. "It is no time for ceremony," he gasped, breathlessly. "Where is your father?" "At--Mr Van Heldre's," panted Louise, as she turned to him with extended hands. "Mr Leslie, pray--pray tell me--what is wrong?" "Tell you?" he cried, catching her almost in his arms, and holding her firmly; and his voice sounded deep, hoarse, and full of commiseration. "How am I to dare to tell you, Louise?" "Mr Leslie!" She half struggled from him, but he retained her hands. "Tell me," he cried; "what shall I say? Am I to speak out?" "Yes, quick! You torture me." "Torture you, whom I would die to save from pain!" She trembled and flushed, and turned pale by turns. "I must tell you," he said; "there is no time to spare. I have--try and bear it, my child, like the true, brave heart you are. Your brother--" "Yes; quick! what do you mean?" Leslie stood looking at her for a few moments, his mind dragged two ways, and shrinking from giving his news as he gazed into her dilated eyes. "Why do you not speak?" she said passionately. "Do you not see the pain you give me?" "I must speak," he groaned. "Where is your brother? There is a horrible rumour in the town. Mr Crampton--" "Crampton!"