“This gentleman had Miss le Marchant out of the water before I was on my feet. I fell,” with rage in his tone because his plans had miscarried, because it was Cristiane who could sit up and speak, not Ismay. “Mr. Wray told me not to try,” Cristiane said, shivering. “And I would. I’m cold. Take me home.” Cylmer looked at her. “Have you no thought for Miss Trelane, who tried to save you?” he said sternly. Cristiane went off into wild hysterics. “She didn’t try to save me,” she gasped; “she stood on the hill and watched me. I saw her. She could have got here long ago, but she hates me. Oh, I know. Just because you love me.” Cylmer made one quick stride to her. “Be silent. Have you no sense; no decency?” His face absolutely white, he pointed to where Ismay lay on the grass. “You abuse her when for all you know she may have died for you. Take Mrs. Trelane’s arm and go home. I am ashamed that you are your father’s daughter.” Wray had not heard her. After he had frightened Mrs. Trelane to silence with that cruel grasp of her shoulder he had run with all his speed to the stables to send a man for a doctor. He was more savage than he had ever been in his life at his morning’s work. No one knew as he did why Ismay had not been able to withstand the shock of that icy water. And the heiress was to go scot-free! He ground his teeth as he hurried. Never! Dead or alive, Ismay should not save her. But if he could do it, there should be life kept in that sweet body of hers yet, for, in his way, the man loved her. Cristiane, the icy water dripping from her, rose and looked at Cylmer with chattering teeth. “She hates me, and she is a liar and a thief. Look what I found this morning.” Her voice low and spiteful, never reached Mrs. Trelane, as she hung over Ismay. She stuffed a little card, dirty and crumbled, into his hand, but though he took it, it was without knowledge or care of what she said. “Go!” he repeated angrily. “Don’t you see you must get off your wet clothes?” But without seeing what she did he had stooped and lifted in his arms the girl who was to have been flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. An old, old cry was on his lips as he lifted his ice-cold, ghastly burden: “Would that I had died for thee, I and none other!” CHAPTER XXVI. “HER MOTHER’S CHILD!” Cylmer, waiting by the hall fire, his wet clothes steaming, thought the doctor would never come down-stairs. To Wray he gave no thought; it never occurred to him that that astute person was keeping out of the way, for fear of comments of his idiocy in having taken Cristiane on ice he knew nothing about. And Mrs. Trelane was with Ismay; Cristiane put to bed crying with temper and fright. The empty feeling of the house drove Cylmer wild. He was more glad to see the little country doctor than he had ever been at anything in his life. “Miss Trelane!” he said bluntly. “Is she----” The words stuck in his throat.