"Yes, Squire. I've had a deal o' fever lately, on and off. Perhaps Doctor King could give me some'at better for't than them druggists gives." "Perhaps I can," said Mr. King. "I'll have a talk with you presently. How is Madam to-day, Mr. Chattaway?" "As well as usual, except in the matter of grumbling," was the ungracious answer. And the master of the Hold, perhaps not finding it particularly lively there, went out as he delivered it, giving a short adieu to Mr. King. Meanwhile, George Ryle reached the Hold. Maude saw his approach from the drawing-room window, and came to the hall-door. "I want to speak to you," she whispered. He followed her into the room; there was no one in it. Maude closed the door, and spoke in a gentle whisper. "May I tell Aunt Edith?" George looked dubious. "That is a serious question, Maude." "It would give her renewed life," returned Maude, her tone intensely earnest. "George, if this suspense is to continue, she will sink under it. It was very, very bad for me to bear, and I am young and strong. I fear, too, that my aunt gets the dreadful doubt upon her now and then whether--whether--what was said of Mr. Chattaway is not true; and Rupert was killed that night. Oh, let me tell her!" "Maude, I should be glad for her to know it. My only doubt is, whether she would _dare_ keep the secret from her husband, Rupert being actually within the precincts of the Hold." "She can be braver in Rupert's cause than you imagine. I am sure that she will be as safe as you or I." "Then let us tell her." Maude's eyes grew bright with gladness. Taking all circumstances into view, there was not much cause for congratulation; but, compared with what had been, it seemed as joy to Maude, and her heart grew light. "I shall never repay you, George," she cried, with enthusiasm, lifting her eyes gratefully to his. George laughed, and made a prisoner of her. "I can repay myself, Maude." And Mrs. Chattaway was told. In the twilight of that same evening, when the skies were grey, and the trees in the lonely avenue were gloomy, there glided one beneath them with timid and cautious step. It was Mrs. Chattaway. A soft black shawl was thrown over her head and shoulders, and her gown was black; precautions rendering her less easy to be observed; and curious eyes might be about. She kept close to the trees as she stole along, ready to conceal herself amidst them if necessary. And it was necessary. Surely there was a fatality clinging to the spot this evening, or Mr. Chattaway was haunting it in suspicion. One moment more, and he would have met his wife; but she heard the footsteps in time. Her heart beating, her hands pressed upon her bosom, she waited in her hiding-place until he had gone past: waited until she believed him safe at home, and then she went on.