Behind the dining-room there was a dingy, sunless little library looking out upon a few feet of neglected back-yard and the blank wall of a neighboring mansion. To this penitential apartment Prue retired, delegating to Peggie the task of receiving her callers and making what excuses she pleased for her absence. "Say I am ill; say I am dead; say whatever you think will get rid of them quickest, Peggie, but don’t let them imagine that I am unhappy, for that is the deadliest breach of good-manners and would make me an object of ridicule." "Well, promise me you will not fret any more," besought Peggie, caressing her. "Your sweet eyes are all puffed up and you won’t be fit for the masquerade ball if you cry any more." Prue promised to control herself, and by way of keeping her word threw herself on the floor before the door closed upon her cousin, and flinging her arms out upon the seat of a chair, laid her face upon them and gave way to quieter and more subdued, but not less bitter weeping. She had not long been thus when the door opened and some one looked in. Thinking that she was being sought for and sure that where she lay she was safely hidden, she kept very still. "Will you wait in here, sir, until I inquire if her ladyship can see you?" said James, the butler. "What name shall I say?" "It would be useless to give my name," replied a deep voice; "or stay, you can say I bring tidings from Bleak-moor." As the door closed, Prue rose to her feet with distended eyes and bristling hair, and faced Robin Freemantle. He wore a long riding-coat of wine-colored cloth and carried a broad beaver caught up on one side with a plain silver buckle. A small quantity of fine linen ruffle protruded from his vest and the sleeves of his coat, and his left hand rested in a broad black ribbon sling. With his neat leather gaiters and spurred heels, and the plain sword in its black scabbard peeping from beneath the full skirt of his coat, he looked the traveling country-gentleman to the life. For a minute or more the husband and wife stood gazing upon each other in silence. Gradually the look of terror faded from Prue’s face and was replaced by an expression in which fear and anger contended with relief. "It is really you?" she gasped—"alive—and free?" Then the recollection of her futile tears and her hours of anguish rushed over her and she stamped her little foot in unmistakable irritation. "You are angry with me—because I am alive?" he said, recoiling as though she had struck him. "I have no right to be angry," she said coldly. "On the contrary, I congratulate you." "_You_ congratulate _me_!" he repeated slowly. "But how about yourself? I am afraid my—resurrection—has put you in an awkward position." She made no reply. "Am I to blame for that—?" he began, but she turned upon him swiftly.