Mostyn read the letter through carefully, the frown deepening on his brow as he came to the end. Cicely had penned the epistle under the stress of deep emotion, and the page was blotted here and there where her tears had fallen upon it. The gist of her letter was that she could stay no longer at home--that her father's insults and cruelty had become unbearable--that he had even raised his hand against her. It was in her very misery of spirit that she had at last yielded to the temptation to write to Pierce, whom she loved so utterly, so devotedly. She had been seized by a terrible fear, too, a fear which had haunted her for weeks and months, that his love for her was on the wane; she could bear it no longer, and so in her misery she had broken her promise. Would he come to her? The request was repeated over and over again, in the course of the letter. She wanted his comfort--his support--his kiss--and if she were denied these any longer, she feared her health would break down. "I'm going to her--I'm going to her to-day!" Pierce rose from the table, having swallowed his coffee almost at a gulp, and eaten nothing. He pushed his chair back viciously and began parading the room with long, angry strides. "I'm not going to be kept from Cicely another day, and I don't care a hang what my father, or anybody else, may do. It was a shame--an infernal shame--to keep us apart, and I've suffered more than you can guess, Mostyn. We love each other, and what do you think it has been to me to know that she has been left with that infernal old---- I beg your pardon, Mostyn," he added hastily, "but I'm so upset I hardly know what I'm saying." "Why shouldn't Cicely come to me?" suggested Mostyn, who was trying to keep his head cool. "She could stay here at the Grange till after her twenty-first birthday. Wouldn't that satisfy your father?" Pierce wheeled round sharply and indignantly. "And I not see her all the time," he exclaimed, "just because of a silly fad of a silly old man! And how could you and I go about together, Mostyn, if she were with you? No, that won't do either. I've made up my mind. I'm going straight to London; yes, to-day, in spite of the race, in spite of everything, and I'm going to beard the lion in his den. I'm going to take Cicely out of his clutches--carry her off by force if needs be. She can stay with my aunt, Lady Fenton, who knows her and is fond of her, and who will do anything for me. Cicely shall stay there till we can be married, and that shall be just as soon as ever I can get the licence." "But the Squire--your father?" protested Mostyn.