Lilias accepted her own loneliness with resignation, not thinking of any possible alleviation; and she watched, sitting at the door of the old hall, for every one who might come along the road. It was October--the days getting short, the air more chilly, the sun less genial. The woods began to put on robes of colour, as if the rosy sunset clouds had floated down among them. The air blew cold in her face, as she sat outside the hall door. Martuccia within, in the background, shivered, and drew her shawl more closely across her ample shoulders. But Lilias did not feel the cold. She was looking out for some one--for papa, who might come all at once, at any time--for Mr. Geoff, who might bring news of papa--for something to come and break the monotony of this life. Something Lilias felt sure must be coming; it could not go on like this for ever. “Nello was always company for his sister,” Mary said. Though she assented, she could not but complain. She had come out to breathe the air, and was walking up and down, Mr. Pen by her side. “It is very hard upon Lily, just at this moment, when everything is hanging in the balance, that her little brother should have been sent away.” “It would be very well,” said Mr. Pen, “if you would send her away too. Nello wanted it. He would never have learned anything at home. He will come back so much improved. If he is to be received as the heir of everything----” “If, Mr. Pen?” “Well; I would not go against you for the world; but there is truth in what Randolph says. Randolph says there must be certificates of his birth, and all that; quite easy--quite easy to get--but where is your brother John to look after it all? He ought to be here now.” “Yes, he ought to be here. But would it be safe for him to come, Mr. Pen?” “Miss Mary, I can’t help wondering about that,” said Mr. Pen, with troubled looks--had he grown unfaithful to John?--“if he is innocent, why shouldn’t he come _now_? No jury would convict----” Mary stopped him with a motion of her hand. “Randolph has been gaining you over to his side,” she said. They were walking up and down the road close to the house. Just where the great gates ought to be--if the Musgraves were ever rich enough to restore the courtyard of the old Castle--was the limit of their walk. Mary could not allow herself to be out of reach even for an hour. She was here, ready to be called, in case her father should come to any semblance of himself. “I do not say he has not some reason on his side, now that my father is--as he is. Everything seems to have grown so much nearer. It is dreadful not to know where John is, not to be able to communicate with him. I wrote to the last place where they were living--the place the children came from--but I have never had any answer. When my poor father goes--as go he must, I suppose--what am I to do?” “You must let Randolph manage for you. Randolph must do it. God knows, Miss Mary, I don’t want to go against you----”