"Did you want anything particular with me, George?" she asked in French, waiting until they were beyond hearing--lest the walls of the house should possess ears. "Only to tell you that I had a letter from Emma this morning. I should not have come up so late but for believing the family were all out." "What does Emma say?" "Not much. Emma never does, you know. She sends some kind messages to you and a kiss to Marie: and she asks how much longer I mean to linger at Greylands. That is about all." "But does she ask nothing about Anthony?" "She asks in a general way, whether we know more yet. Which of course we do not." "Have you made anything out of that young Dance, George?" "Nothing. There's nothing to be made out of him. Except that I feel convinced the tale he tells is not all true. I was in the Friar's Keep to-night----" "And saw nothing?" she eagerly interrupted. "And saw nothing. It was dark and silent and lonely as usual. Sometimes I ask myself what it is that I can reasonably expect to see." "Yes, I know; you have thought that from the first," she said reproachfully. "My brain is at work always I have no rest by night or by day." "Which is very bad for you, Charlotte: it is wearing you out. This living, restless anxiety will not bring elucidation any the surer or quicker." "Not bring it! But it will. Will my prayers and my anguish not be heard, think you? God is good." They parted with the last words. Charlotte Guise, leaning on the side-gate as she looked after him, raised her eyes to the blue canopy of heaven: and there and then, in her simple faith, poured forth a few words of prayer. CHAPTER XXXI. CALLING IN THE BLACKSMITH. Things were swiftly coming to a crisis in Miss Hallet's house, though that lady was very far from suspecting it. Time had again gone on since the last chapter, and Walter Dance was about again.