Dr. Bryant could not but recall Lettice's marked reluctance, as well as her after uneasiness, and the avowed cause which to him had seemed so inadequate. He had felt a measure of perplexity all day on the subject; and these recollections now told heavily against her. "Of course," continued Theodosia, "you hoped that I should not come upon the note. A bit of paper crumpled up is easily overlooked. If I had not been on the look-out, we should not have noticed it." Lettice glanced despairingly at Dr. Bryant. The ground seemed to be slipping from under her feet. "Then this is why you have refused to speak!" he said slowly. "This—the reason! And I could trust you throughout—" "Won't you trust me still?" besought Lettice. The temptation to tell him all was strong; but after her unfounded suspicions of Felix, it seemed too cruel to avow them to another, as a means of defending herself. Such a confession, tantamount almost to a declaration that he was not trustworthy, might never be forgotten. Lettice restrained the words which almost broke from her lips, and repeated passionately: "Won't you trust me? Won't you believe me? I had a reason for not speaking; but indeed this is the truth. I don't know how it got into my box. Indeed, I am innocent! Won't you believe me?" Dr. Bryant made no answer whatever. He rose, quitted the room, and was heard to enter his study, shutting the door heavily. Lettice knew that at last, he condemned her as guilty. The Valentines had been nearly a month in London. Only in the outskirts; but the veriest fringe of the great City's garment is apt to seem overpowering to country people. After the "dear old Farm," where every patch of grass was familiar, and every bush was a friend, where cottages could be counted on the fingers, and people might be numbered by tens, the ceaseless rivers of human beings, the never-ending roll of human noise, and the uncountable blocks of human dwellings, had a tendency to weigh upon the spirits. Perhaps Mr. Valentine felt this weight most severely. He was a thorough old yeoman, absolutely at home among the clods of a ploughed field, utterly lost among bricks and mortar. Not only had he lived in the country all his life, but love of rural quiet was inherited by him through a long line of yeomen forefathers; and dislike of crowds was ingrain. His gentle old wife grieved over the change, and was tried by the narrow limits of her new sphere; but she had no strong inherited proclivities either way, and her girlhood had been mainly spent in town. The brick and paving-stones, the hum of sound, seemed natural enough, only wearying from want of use. She grew at times pale and tired, but her placid face had not the forlorn look which fixed itself permanently in the lines of her husband's features.