There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent. Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her. "Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake--a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that I was Richard's murderer!" Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face. "Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?" It seemed to him a long time--it was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds--before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not believe me?" he had said. And she answered-- "No." The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect. "If that is your final answer," he said, "I can say nothing more. Perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. In the meantime, I shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which I can assist you in carrying out." "None in which I require your assistance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily. "I have my jointure; I can live upon that. I will leave Netherglen to you. I will take a cottage for myself--and Angela." "And Angela?" "Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. Under these circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere justice if I offered her a home. Henceforth she is my daughter." "You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?" "I have." "And you thought--you think--of taking a home for yourselves?" "Yes." "I suppose you do not object," said Brian, slowly, "to the gossip to which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?"