“What!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of consternation; “and live in complete seclusion? Not receive calls? No, no; you really must not think of such a thing. We are your friends, you know, and you must not deny us an occasional sight of you. My poor boy will positively die if he doesn't see you. He's pining now. And it's all for you. All.” “Mrs. Mowbray,” said Edith, in a severe tone, “I do not know whether you give offense intentionally or not. You seem unable to take a hint, however strongly expressed, and you force me to speak plainly, although I dislike to do so. You must not, and you shall not, come here any more.” “Oh, my dear Miss Dalton, you really are quite excited,” said Mrs. Mowbray, with a pleasant smile. “I mean what I say,” said Edith, coldly. “You are not--to come here again.” Mrs. Mowbray laughed lightly. “Oh, you really can't keep us away. We positively must come. My son insists. These lovers, you know, dear, are so pertinacious. Well,” she added, looking hastily at Edith, “I suppose I must say good--morning; but, Miss Dalton, think of my boy. Good--morning, my dear Miss Dalton.” And so Mrs. Mowbray retired. She called again four times, twice alone, and twice in company with the captain, but Edith refused to see her. Yet, after all, in spite of her scorn for these people, and her conviction that they were in league with Wiggins--in spite of the captain's brutality--it was not without sorrow that Edith dismissed Mrs. Mowbray; for she looked upon her as a kind of tie that bound her to the outer world, and until the last she had hoped that some means might arise through these, if not of escape, at least of communication with friends. But she was cut off from these now more than ever; and what remained? What? A prison-house! * * * * * CHAPTER XIX. A NEW-COMER. It seemed now to Edith that her isolation was complete. She found herself in a position which she had thought impossible in free England--a prisoner in the hands of an adventurer, who usurped an authority over her to which he had no right. His claim to exercise this authority in his office of guardian she did not admit for a moment. She, the mistress of Dalton Hall, was nothing more than a captive on her own estates. She did not know how this could end or when it could end. Her hopes had one by one given way. The greatest blow of all was that which had been administered through the so-called letter of Miss Plympton. That letter she believed to be a forgery, yet the undeniable fact remained that Miss Plympton had done nothing. That Miss Plympton should write that letter, however, and that she should leave her helpless at the mercy of Wiggins, seemed equally improbable, and Edith, in her vain effort to comprehend it, could only conclude that some accident had happened to her dear friend; that she was ill, or worse. And if this was so, it would be to her the worst blow of all.