"I was very wicked and weak, sir, in behaving as I did; but tell him--I must speak now--tell him it was Mrs Glaire sent me away." "Mrs Glaire sent you away?" exclaimed the vicar. "Yes, yes, yes," sobbed Daisy; "so that--her son--" "To get you away from Richard Glaire?" "Yes, sir; yes. I wish--I wish I'd never seen him." "How came you at the foundry to-night?" he said sharply. "I went to tell him of the danger, sir. I went to the House first, and they told me he was there. I hate him, I hate him," she cried, passionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, "and everybody thinks me wicked and bad." "Is this true, Daisy Banks?" exclaimed the vicar. "She couldn't tell a lie, sir," cried a hoarse voice. "Daisy, my poor bairn, I don't think it no more." "Tom!" sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn, however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed. "Thank God!" he said softly--"thank God!" Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the circumstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the other guarding the works. "Don't be alarmed, my girl, there is no bad news," he said; and with a sigh of relief the girl showed him in to where Richard, Eve, and Mrs Glaire were seated, all watchful, pale, and ready to take alarm at the least sound. "I'm glad you have come, Mr Selwood," exclaimed Mrs Glaire; while Richard gave him a sulky nod, Eve trying to rise, but sinking back trembling. "I should have been here sooner," he said, "but I have had much to do." "Is there any fresh danger?" "None whatever," said the vicar. "I think the storm is over--I hope for good." Mrs Glaire gave a sigh of relief, and then wondered, as she saw the vicar cross the room; but the next minute a faint flush came into her pale cheeks, and she tottered to where Eve was sitting, and buried her face on her shoulder. "Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly, as he nerved himself for what he had to say, determined, as he was, to leave nothing undone in what he looked upon as his duty--"Mr Glaire, I have done you a grievous wrong; I humbly ask your pardon." "What do you mean?" said Richard, starting, and wondering, with his customary distrust in human nature, whether it was some trap. "I mean that, in common with others, I believed you guilty of inveigling Daisy Banks away." "It don't matter to me what people think," said Richard, roughly. "I am sorry I misjudged you," continued the vicar; "and once more I ask your pardon." "It don't matter," said Richard. "Mrs Glaire," the vicar continued, kindly, as he drew a chair to her side and took her hand, "you did a foolish, cruel thing in this." "Then you know all?" she sobbed.