"Nothing--nothing more after that night. In a day or two, when my courage came to me, and I would have asked details, Mr. Thornycroft, who happened to be in the room, went into great anger. He told me to hold my tongue; never to speak or think of the subject again, or he should send me back to France. I obeyed him; I did not speak of it; even when there was talk in the village because of the accident, and he had the railings put up, I kept myself silent. I could not obey him in the other thing--not to think of it. I tried not; and I got dear Mrs. Thornycroft to put my bed in a back room, so that I did not see the plateau from my window. Well, to go back, miladi: I think it must have been this cause, or something connected with it, that brought the fear in which she lived to Mrs. Thornycroft." Lady Ellis was silent. She could not think anything of the sort. Unless, indeed, the late Mrs. Thornycroft was of a kindred nature to mademoiselle; timorous and weak-minded. "The preventive men pace there, do they not?" "By day, yes; they walk on to it from their beat below, but not much at night. Ah, no! not since the accident; they do not like the ghost." Mademoiselle rose; she was going to Mrs. Wilkinson's, on the heath, for the rest of her stay in Coastdown. Saying good night to my lady, she went in search of Mary Anne, and could not find her. Mary Anne was with her brother Isaac. She had flown to him after quitting the presence of her stepmother, having had much ado to repress all the feelings that went well-nigh to choke her. With a crimson face and heaving bosom, with wild sobs, no longer checked, she threw herself on his neck. "Now, Mary Anne!" "It has been my place ever since mamma died. It is not right that she should take it." He found she was speaking of the seat at table. Every little incident of this kind, that must inevitably occur when a second wife is brought home, did but add to the feeling of bitter grief, of _wrong_. Not for the place in itself did she care, but because a stranger had usurped what had been their mother's. Letting the burst of grief spend itself, Isaac Thornycroft then sat down, put her in a chair near him, and gave her some wise counsel. It would be so much happier for her--for all of them--for papa--that they should unite in making the best of the new wife come amidst them; of her, and for her. All he said was of little use. Anger, pain, bitter, bitter self-reproach sat passionately this night on the heart of Mary Anne Thornycroft. "Don't talk, Isaac. I hope I shall not die of it." "Die of it?" "The fault is mine. I can see it well. Had I been obedient to Miss Derode; had I only stayed quietly at school, it never would have happened. Papa would not have brought her home, or thought of bringing her home, but for me."