“I will leave it to your good sense, my dear,” Mr. Huntley whispered, glancing round, as if not caring that even the walls should hear. “I have liked Hamish very much, or you may be sure he would not have been allowed to come here so frequently. But he has forfeited my regard now, as he must forfeit that of all good men.” She trembled excessively, almost to impede her utterance, when she would have asked what it was that he had done. “I scarcely dare breathe it to you,” said Mr. Huntley, “for it is a thing that we must hush up, as the family are hushing it up. When that bank-note was lost, suspicion fell on Arthur.” “Well, papa?” wonderingly resumed Ellen. “It was not Arthur who took it. It was Hamish. And Arthur is bearing the stigma of it for his father’s sake.” Ellen grew pale. “Papa, who says it?” “No one _says_ it, Ellen. But the facts leave no room for doubt. Hamish’s own manner--I have just left him--leaves no room for it. He is indisputably guilty.” Then Ellen’s anger, her _straightforwardness_, broke forth. She clasped her hands in pain, and her face grew crimson. “He is _not_ guilty, papa. I would answer for it with my own life. How dare they accuse him! how dare they asperse him? Is he not Hamish Channing?” “Ellen! _Ellen_!” Ellen burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Forgive me, papa. If he has no one else to take his part, I will do it. I do not wish to be undutiful; and if you bid me never to see or speak to Hamish Channing again, I will implicitly obey you; but, hear him spoken of as guilty, I will not. I wish I could stand up for him against the world.” “After that, Miss Ellen Huntley, I think you had better sit down.” Ellen sat down, and cried until she was calm. CHAPTER XXXVII. -- THE CONSPIRATORS.