He read it, and in a moment, with a courtesy that surprised her, he tried to set her at her ease. “You need not scruple,” he said, “to speak freely to me upon this matter. Nothing that you may tell me will go beyond this room.” “Thank you,” she said, but still she hesitated. She could not tell him of that terrible night with Montague upon the moors. At last, with an effort, “I had an unpleasant adventure,” she said. “I was lost in a fog. A little blind girl from a farm near by called Tetherstones found me, and took me home with her. I was ill after that, and they nursed me.” “They?” queried the Bishop. “The Dermots,” she said. “Ah!” said the Bishop. He sat for a space lost in thought, his eyes still fixed upon her. “Tell me about them!” he said at length. “Of what does the family now consist?” She told him, and he listened with close attention. “What is the father like?” he asked then. “He is an invalid,” she said. “The son works the farm, and the girls all help. The mother spends most of her time looking after the old man.” “Is he very old?” asked the Bishop. “Very, I should say,” she answered. “And the child—she is blind, you say?” “Not now,” said Frances gently. “She is dead.” He bent his head. “How did she come to die?” “It was an accident,” Frances said. “It happened one night——” She stopped. He was looking at her strangely, almost as if he suspected her of trying to deceive him. “You are sure it was an accident?” he said. She gazed back at him in amazement. “How could it have been anything else?” He made a peculiar gesture as if to check her questioning. “And the old man? Tell me more about him! What form does his malady take?” His manner was compelling. She found herself answering, though wonder still possessed her. “He suffers with his heart, and at times his brain wanders a little. He gave me the impression of being worn out, but I did not see a great deal of him.” “You never saw him when he was ill?” said the Bishop. “Yes, once.” She paused. “Once?” repeated the Bishop. “Yes. He was not quite himself at the time. I sat with him for an afternoon. He spoke rather strangely, I remember. He—” Again she paused. Memory was crowding back upon her. The inexplicable horror with which that day she had been inspired returned to her. And suddenly a strange thing happened. It was as if a curtain had been rent aside, showing her in a single blinding moment of revelation the phantom of terror from whose unseen presence she had so often shrunk in fear. She uttered a sharp gasp, and turned from the hard eyes that watched her. “That is all I can tell you,” she said.