"But I am hearing of it from all sides; and, see here." Mrs Alleyne handed a letter to her daughter, and Lucy turned it over in her trembling fingers while she stood flushed and indignant before her mother. "All I can say is," said Mrs Alleyne, "that if you have carried on this wretched flirtation with the betrothed of the girl you called your friend, it is most disgraceful." "I tell you again, mamma, it is not true," cried Lucy passionately. "Oh, why will you not believe me!" "Read that letter," said Mrs Alleyne sternly. Lucy's eyes fell upon the paper, and then she snatched them away, but only to look at it again and read the stereotyped form of anonymous letter from a true friend, asking whether Mrs Alleyne was aware that her daughter was in the habit of meeting Captain Rolph at night, etc., etc., etc. "How can anyone write such a scandalous untruth!" cried Lucy passionately; "and it is cruel--cruel in the extreme of you, mamma, to think for a moment that it is true." "That what is true?" said a deep, grave voice. Mother and daughter turned quickly to see that Alleyne had come in during their altercation, and he now stretched out his hand for the letter. Lucy looked up in the white, stern face, almost with a fright, and then shrinkingly, as if he were her judge, placed the letter in his hands, and shrank back to watch his countenance, as he read it slowly through, weighing every word before turning to Mrs Alleyne. "Did you receive this?" he said. "Yes, Moray; but I did not mean to let it trouble you, my son." "Leave Lucy with me for a few minutes, mother," said Alleyne sternly. "But, Moray, my son--" "I wish it, mother," he said coldly; and, taking her hand, he was about to lead her to the door, but he altered his mind, and, with old-fashioned courtesy, took her to her chair, after which he deliberately tore up the letter and burned the scraps before turning to his sister. "Come with me, Lucy," he said in his deep, grave tones. "I wish to speak with you." He held the door open, and Lucy passed out before him, trembling and agitated, as if she were going to her trial, while Alleyne quietly closed each door after them, and followed her into the observatory, where he sat down and held out his hand, looking up at the poor girl with so tender and pitying an aspect that she uttered a sobbing cry, caught his hands in hers, and, throwing herself on her knees at his feet, burst into a passion of weeping. "Poor little woman," he said tenderly, as he drew her more and more to him, till her head rested upon his breast, and with one hand he gently stroked the glossy hair. "Come, Lucy, I am not your judge, only your brother: tell me--is that true?" "No--no--no--no! Moray, it is false as false can be. I have not seen or spoken to Captain Rolph for months." "But you did see and speak to him alone, little woman?" he said, looking paler and older and as if every word was a trouble to him to utter.