Quite a thrill of relief ran through the county at the news of her convalescence, and attention, which had been mainly devoted to her, concentrated itself upon the man who lay in prison awaiting his trial, and upon Mr. Bartley Bradstone. He had never been popular; but those who liked him least--and no one liked him overmuch--felt constrained to pity him. He seldom left The Maples, excepting to walk up to the Grange to inquire after his bride, and those few persons who chanced to meet him were struck by the change in his appearance. He had been rather ruddy and robust, but he was now thin and emaciated, and looked ten years older than he had done on the day of his wedding. There was not only a look of age, but an expression of anxious unrest, which struck every one who saw him; and, strange to say, the wan and haggard expression on his face did not leave it when Olivia was pronounced out of danger. “That poor devil Bradstone has been completely bowled over,” one man said. “Looks as if he had all the care of the world on his shoulders,” and that very exactly described Bartley Bradstone’s appearance. He haunted the Grange daily; but he had not seen Olivia since the wedding day. “Keep him away from her, if you wish her recovery to continue,” the doctor had said, and the poor squire repeated his words. “Oh, I won’t worry her,” said Bartley Bradstone, in the dull, apathetic manner which had settled upon him. “Sick people take all sorts of fancies; she’ll see me when she’s better, and--and we’ll get away.” “Yes, yes,” said the squire, with a heavy sigh. “When all this trouble is over. It is this terrible murder which hangs like a dark cloud over us all.” “Does--does she speak of it at all?” asked Bartley Bradstone, looking down at the carpet, as if he were suddenly interested in the pattern. The squire shook his head. “Not to me; not to Bessie, I think. She has seen no one else, excepting the doctor.” “That’s right,” said Bartley Bradstone. “Don’t let anybody talk to her about it; she’ll forget it before long.” It almost seemed as if Olivia had already forgotten it, for day after day passed and she made no mention of the terrible incident which had stricken her down. She lay on the sofa, her thin and now fragile form carefully enwrapped, her hands folded lightly in her lap; her lovely eyes, strained with hidden pain, fixed on the elms which showed through the window. Bessie, who even now scarcely ever left her, would sit silent for hours, sometimes with a book, sometimes at needlework. It was only when the squire entered that Olivia’s pale face warmed with a smile. But one morning, after a long silence, she said, so quietly but suddenly that Bessie started and let the work fall from her hands: “Bessie, tell me all; tell me the truth.” “About Mr. Faradeane, miss?” faltered Bessie, who had not yet learned to call her mistress by her wedded title.