Morna had not spoken. Now she took a quick step forward, her eyes brimming. But Rachel held up her hand. "You are sure you realize who I am?" "Yes, Rachel." "Rachel Minchin!" added Rachel, harshly. "The notorious Mrs. Minchin--the Mrs. Minchin whom Mr. Venables would have come to see hanged!" "Hush, Rachel, hush!" "Then be honest with me--mind, honest--not kind! You would not have said what Mrs. Venables said to me; she said that all the world believed me guilty. You would not have said that, Morna; but are you sure you would not have said it in your heart? Can you look me in the face and tell me you don't believe it, like all the rest of the world?" There was no faltering of the firm, sweet voice; it was only unutterably sad. And Morna answered it only with a sob, as she flung her arms round Rachel's neck, while her husband waited with outstretched hand. CHAPTER XVIII "THEY WHICH WERE BIDDEN" The rose-covered cottage of Charles Langholm's dreams, which could not have come true in a more charming particular, stood on a wooded hill at the back of a village some three miles from Normanthorpe. It was one of two cottages under the same tiled roof, and in the other there lived an admirable couple who supplied all material wants of the simple life which the novelist led when at work. In his idle intervals the place knew him not; a nomadic tendency was given free play, and the man was a wanderer on the face of Europe. But he wandered less than he had done from London, finding, in his remote but fragrant corner of the earth, that peace which twenty years of a strenuous manhood had taught him to value more than downright happiness. Its roses were not the only merit of this ideal retreat, though in the summer months they made it difficult for one with eyes and nostrils to appreciate the others. There was a delightful room running right through the cottage; and it was here that Langholm worked, ate, smoked, read, and had his daily being; his bath was in the room adjoining, and his bed in another adjoining that. Of the upper floor he made no use; it was filled with the neglected furniture of a more substantial establishment, and Langholm seldom so much as set foot upon the stairs. The lower rooms were very simply furnished. There was a really old oak bureau, and some solid, comfortable chairs. The pictures were chiefly photographs of other writers. There were better pictures deep in dust upstairs.