"A charmingly disinterested specimen of womankind," says Brian, raising his brows. "And this to _me_," says The Desmond, an indignant sob making his weak voice weaker,--"a man who had always kept himself straight in the eyes of the world. I was required to represent myself as a low, despicable fellow, one of those who seek a woman's affections only to ignore them at the sight of the next pretty face." "But you refused to comply with her request?" says Brian, hastily. "No, sir, I didn't," says the squire, shame struggling with his excitement. "On the contrary, I gave in to her in every respect. I believe at that time I would cheerfully have allowed myself to be branded as a _thief_ if she had desired it and if it would have saved her one scrap of discomfort. She was afraid of her sisters, you see. I blamed them then, Brian, but I think now her fear of them arose from the fact that _they_ were as true as _she_ was----Well, well!" "This is indeed a revelation," says Brian. "Yes; you wouldn't think they would behave like that, would you?" says Mr. Desmond, eagerly. "Who? The Misses Blake?" says Brian, startled. "Yes. It wasn't like them to keep silent all these years, and let me bear the brunt of the battle, when they knew I was innocent and that it was their own flesh and blood who was in fault. Yet they turned their backs upon me, and have treated me ever since as though I were in reality the miscreant they have succeeded in making me out." "There is a terrible mistake somewhere," says Brian. "They do verily believe you to be the miscreant you describe." "Brian, come here!" says the old man, in an ominously calm tone. "Do you mean to tell me Priscilla Blake believes me guilty of having behaved dishonestly to her sister Katherine? You positively think this?" "I _know_ it," says Brian, who feels it is better to get out the plain unvarnished truth at once. "You have no doubt? Think, Brian; think." "I needn't.--There is no doubt on my mind." "Then she deceived us _all_," says the squire, in a stricken tone. Then he roused himself again. He seems to have recovered his strength wonderfully during the past hour. "Go, get me Priscilla Blake," he says. "Hurry, boy! hurry! I must make it right with her before I die." "Before you recover, you mean," says Brian, cheerily. "There! lie down now, and keep yourself quiet, or you won't be looking your best when she comes." * * * * * And now Miss Priscilla has come, and is standing beside the bed of her quondam friend, looking down upon him with dim eyes. "I am sorry to meet you again like this, George Desmond," she says, at last, in tones meant to be full of relentless displeasure, but which falter strangely.