They went round to the back and loosened the dog. Both of them went, which was a mistake, for if one of them had remained behind he would have seen Seth, the gypsy, glide out from among the shrubs and vault over the low palings. The dog bounded across the garden, destroying the flowers, and growling angrily; but after sniffing about for a minute or two, he came back and licked Faradeane’s hand. “There was no one,” he said. “Good-night.” “Good-night,” said Bertie. “I trust you with my future happiness, old fellow.” “I shall not betray you,” was the low-voiced response. Then he sent the dog back to his kennel, and returned to the parlor. For a minute or two he stood leaning against the table with his hand before his eyes; then he drew himself upright, and, filling his pipe, smoked furiously. “I must do it!” he murmured. “But--how hard! How hard! Oh, fool! fool!” CHAPTER XIII. THE PLEADER. The dawn crept through the window and found Harold Faradeane still pacing to and fro. Later the morning grew rosy and bright and soft with the breath of early summer, and, as he rode up the lane, the rays of sunlight pierced the intervals of the pines, and fell slantwise upon his handsome face and short, wavy hair. It was a morning when one is tempted to join in the concert of the birds; but there was no sign of lightness of heart in the pale face, and a shadow as of coming pain was on the dark eyes. He rode up to the Grange gates, and was passing through when he saw a slim, girlish form, closely wrapped in a Shetland shawl, half sitting, half lying on the rustic seat beside the lodge porch. It was Bessie. At sight of him a delicate rose tint suffused her face, and a swift change, as if one of the rays of sunlight had touched them, flew into her eyes. Harold Faradeane pulled up the high-bred horse and slipped from the saddle. “I’m glad to see you out, Miss Bessie,” he said. “You are looking your old self again; but you must take care.” “I--I am all right, quite well now, sir,” said Bessie, with the slight, little pant in her voice which always came there when she spoke to him. “Quite well.” “But you are not to be reckless, all the same,” he said. “For instance, keep that nice shawl more closely round you,” and he drew it together. Bessie’s face grew red, and she stifled a little sigh that was like the quiver of a leaf stirred by the wind, as his hands touched her. “You are very good to me, sir,” she said, in a very low voice. “Yes, it is a nice shawl, isn’t it? It is one of dear Miss Olivia’s. She brought it down to me this morning, and put it round me with her own, dear hands.” His own hands fell from the shawl, and his eyes dropped. “That was kind of her,” he said, almost coldly. “Kind! Why, she is all kindness, she and you, Mr. Faradeane.” He smiled absently. “I’m afraid I’m made of something more than that, Bessie. And Miss Vanley has been here, has she? Has she gone back to the house?”