"Diana, this is killing me!" she wailed. "Why should Rupert be treated as he is? I know I am but a poor creature, that I have been one all my life--a very coward; but sometimes I think that I must speak out and protest against the injustice, though I should die in the effort." "Why, what's the matter?" uttered Miss Diana, whose intense composure formed a strange contrast to her sister's agitated words and bearing. "Oh, you know!--you know! I have not dared to speak out much, even to you, Diana; but it's killing me--it's killing me! Is it not enough that we despoiled Rupert of his inheritance, but we must also----" "Be silent!" sharply interrupted Miss Diana, glancing around and lowering her voice to a whisper. "Will you never have done with that folly, Edith?" "I shall never have done with its remembrance. I don't often speak of it; once, it may be, in seven years, not more. Better for me that I could speak of it; it would prey less upon my heart!" "You have benefited by it as much as any one has." "I cannot help myself. Heaven knows that if I could retire to some poor hut, and live upon a crust of bread, and benefit by it no more, I should do so--oh, how willingly! But there's no escape. I am hemmed in by its consequences; we are all hemmed in by them--and there's no escape." Miss Diana looked at her. Steadfastly, keenly; not angrily, but searchingly and critically, as a doctor looks at a patient supposed to be afflicted with mania. "If you do not take care, Edith, you will become insane upon this point, as I believe I have warned you before," she said, with calmness. "I am not sure but you are slightly touched now!" "I do not think I am," replied poor Mrs. Chattaway, passing her hand over her brow. "I feel confused enough sometimes, but there's no fear that madness will really come. If thinking could have turned me mad, I should have gone mad years ago." "The very act of your coming here in this excited state, when you should be going to bed, and saying what you do say, must be nothing less than a degree of madness." "I would go to bed, if I could sleep," said Mrs. Chattaway. "I lie awake night after night, thinking of the past; of the present; thinking of Rupert and of what we did for him; the treatment we deal out to him now. I think of his father, poor Joe; I think of his mother, Emily Dean, whom we once so loved; and I--I cannot sleep, Diana!" There really did seem something strange in Mrs. Chattaway to-night. For once in her life, Diana Trevlyn's heart beat a shade faster. "Try and calm yourself, Edith," she said soothingly. "I wish I could! I should be more calm if you and my husband would allow it. If you would only allow Rupert to be treated with common kindness----" "He is not treated with unkindness," interrupted Miss Diana. "It appears to me that he is treated with nothing but great unkindness. He----" "Is he beaten?--is he starved?"