“There is something in what Florence says,” he broke in. “I should not have liked the boy to show the white feather. But it is an awful business to kill one’s own first cousin, especially when one is next in the entail. Old Kershaw will be furious at losing his only son, and Ernest will never be able to come back to this country while he lives, or he will set the law on him.” “It is dreadful!” said Dorothy; “just as he was beginning life, and going into a profession, and now to have to go and wander in that far-off country under a false name!” “O yes, it is sad enough,” said Mr. Cardus; “but what is done cannot be undone. He is young, and will live it down, and if the worst comes to the worst, must make himself a home out there. But it is hard upon me, hard upon me;” and he went off to his office, muttering, “hard upon me.” When Florence started upon her homeward way, the afternoon had set in wet and chilly, and the sea was hidden in wreaths of gray mist. Altogether the scene was depressing. On arrival at the Cottage she found Eva standing, the picture of melancholy, by the window, and staring out at the misty sea. “O Florence, I am glad that you have come home; I really began to feel inclined to commit suicide.” “Indeed! and may I ask why?” “I don’t know; the rain is so depressing, I suppose.” “It does not depress me.” “No, nothing ever does; you live in the land of perpetual calm.” “I take exercise, and keep my liver in good order. Have you been out this afternoon?” “No.” “Ah, I thought not. No wonder you feel depressed, staying indoors all day. Why don’t you go for a walk?” “There is nowhere to go.” “Really, Eva, I don’t know what has come to you lately, why don’t you go along the cliff, or stop—have you been to the post-office? I called for the Dum’s Ness letters, and Mr. Brown said that there was one for you.” Eva jumped up with remarkable animation, and passed out of the room with her peculiar light tread. The mention of that word “letter” had sufficed to change the aspect of things considerably. Florence watched her go with a dark little smile. “Ah,” she said aloud, as the door closed, “your feet will soon fall heavily enough.” Presently Eva went out, and Florence, having thrown off her cloak, took her sister’s place at the window and waited. It was seven minutes’ walk to the post-office. She would be back in about a quarter of an hour. Watch in hand, Florence waited patiently. Seventeen minutes had elapsed when the garden-gate was opened, and Eva re-entered, her face quite gray with pain, and furtively applying a handkerchief to her eyes. Florence smiled again. “I thought so,” she said.