She looked up at the glowing window. She looked down at the pool, with the moon kissing it. She flung her arms up with a scream of agony, and sunk into the deep pool, where the moon seemed most to smile on it. Directly after dinner Dr. Amboyne asked to see the unhappy correspondence of which he was to be the judge. Raby went for the letters, and laid them before him. He took up the fatal letter. “Why, this is not written by Mrs. Little. I know her neat Italian hand too well. See how the letters slant and straggle.” “Oh! but you must allow for the writer's agitation.” “Why should I allow for it? YOU DIDN'T. Who can look at this scrawl, and not see that the poor heart-broken creature was not herself when she wrote it? This is not a letter, it is a mere scream of agony. Put yourself in her place. Imagine yourself a woman--a creature in whom the feelings overpower the judgment. Consider the shock, the wound, the frenzy; and, besides, she had no idea that you left this house to get her husband the money from your own funds.” “She never shall know it either.” “She does know it. I have told her. And, poor thing, she thinks she was the only one to blame. She seeks your forgiveness. She pines for it. This is the true cause of her illness; and I believe, if you could forgive her and love her, it might yet save her life.” “Then tell her I blame myself as much as her. Tell her my house, my arms, and my heart are open to her. Amboyne, you are a true friend, and a worthy man. God bless you. How shall we get her here, poor soul? Will you go for her, or shall I?” “Let me sleep on that,” said Dr. Amboyne. In the course of the evening, Dr. Amboyne told Raby all the reports about Jael Dence and Henry Little. “What does that matter now?” said Raby, with a sigh. Whenever a servant came into the room, Amboyne asked him if Jael had arrived. Raby shared his curiosity, but not his anxiety. “The girl knows her friends,” said he. “She will have her cry out, you may depend; but after that she will find her way here, and, when she has got over it a little, I shall be sure to learn from her whether he was her lover, and where he was when the place was blown up. A Dence never lies to a Raby.” But when nine o'clock struck, and there were no tidings of her, Raby began to share the doctor's uneasiness, and also to be rather angry and impatient. “Confound the girl!” said he. “Her grandfathers have stood by mine, in their danger and trouble, for two hundred years; and now, in her trouble, she slinks away from me.” “Put yourself in her place,” said Amboyne. “Ten to one she thinks you are offended about her and Henry. She is afraid to come near you.” “What, when I ask her?”