“No,” said Bessie, gravely. “She said she was going into the Spinney--the wood, you know, sir.” She paused a moment, looking wistfully at him, and with the quick intuition which was a never-ceasing subject of Bertie’s admiration, he said: “Well, Bessie?” She colored, and plucked at the fringe of the shawl. “I don’t think she was quite happy this morning, Mr. Faradeane.” “Not happy!” he said, slowly. “Why?” “Well, I think, I am sure she had been crying. She was so pale and--and sad. And, besides,” naïvely, “I know for certain she had been crying, because she smiled and tried to laugh; and I could--could----” “Hear the tears in her voice,” he said, more to himself than the girl. Bessie nodded quickly: “Yes, that’s the words, sir; and it seems so--so dreadful to me that Miss Olivia should have any trouble; it’s just as if an angel were to cry,” and her own eyes grew dim. “I understand” he said. He stood for a moment looking down at the path, and flicking his leg with his riding whip; then he said: “And Miss Vanley went to the wood, Bessie?” “Yes, sir,” she replied; “and, oh, Mr. Faradeane, if you----” She stopped, abashed. “Well?” he asked, with a faint smile. “I was going to say, only I’m afraid, if you’d only go and find her and talk to her. She thinks so much of you----” She stopped again, for the smile had suddenly vanished from his face. “That’s nonsense, Bessie,” he said. “But, as it happens, I want to see Miss Vanley, and I’ll go and find her.” “Yes, sir,” said the girl, humbly. “Are--are you angry with me?” and her lips quivered piteously. “Angry with you, my dear child!” he exclaimed, reassuringly, and he patted her arm under the thick shawl. “Why should I be angry? But”--he paused almost imperceptibly--“but you must not talk such nonsense as that Miss Vanley thinks much or at all of me----” “But she does!” interrupted Bessie, eagerly. “If you only heard her----” “I mustn’t hear you any longer, you foolish child, or I shall miss Miss Vanley.” And with another gentle and--to Bessie--forgiving touch, he turned and rode toward the wood. All through the night Olivia had lain awake, tossing to and fro, like a soul struggling in chains. The scene with Bartley Bradstone seemed like a hideous dream, from which, try as she would, she could not awake. That he should have dared to tell her that he loved her, have asked her to be his wife, was torture enough to her proud, maiden spirit; but that her father should be in his toils, and his happiness and even life--for she knew that Bartley Bradstone spoke only the truth when he said that to leave the Grange would mean death to the squire--was an agony almost insupportable.