As he spoke he looked down upon her marble face. He did not see Langhetti’s countenance. Had he done so he would have wondered. For Langhetti’s eyes seemed to seek to pierce the very soul of Despard. His face became transformed. Its usual serenity vanished, and there was eager wonder, intense and anxious curiosity--an endeavor to see if there was not some deep meaning underlying Despard’s words. But Despard showed no emotion. He was conscious of no deep meaning. He merely murmured to himself as he looked down upon the unconscious face: “My sick sister--my sister Beatrice.” Langhetti said not a word, but sat in silence, absorbed in one intense and wondering gaze. Despard seemed to dwell upon this idea, fondly and tenderly. “She is not one of that brood,” said he, after a pause. “It is in name only that she belongs to them.” “They are fiends and she is an angel,” said Langhetti. “Heaven has sent her to us; we most preserve her forever.” “If she lives,” said Langhetti, “she must never go back.” “Go back!” cried Despard. “Better far for her to die.” “I myself would die rather than give her up.” “And I, too. But we will not. I will adopt her. Yes, she shall cast away the link that binds her to these accursed ones--her vile name. I will adopt her. She shall have my name--she shall be my sister. She shall be Beatrice Despard. “And surely,” continued Despard, looking tenderly down, “surely, of all the Despard race there was never one so beautiful and so pure as she.” Langhetti did not say a word, but looked at Despard and the one whom he thus called his adopted sister with an emotion which he could not control. Tears started to his eyes; yet over his brow there came something which is not generally associated with tears--a lofty, exultant expression, an air of joy and peace. “Your sister,” said Despard, “shall nurse her back to health. She will do so for your sake, Langhetti--or rather from her own noble and generous instincts. In Thornton Grange she will, perhaps, find some alleviation for the sorrows which she may have endured. Our care shall be around her, and we can all labor together for her future welfare.” They at length reached the inn of which they had spoken, and Beatrice was tenderly lifted out and carried up stairs. She was mentioned as the sister of the Rev. Mr. Despard, of Holby, who was bringing her back from the sea-side, whither she had gone for her health. Unfortunately, she had been too weak for the journey. The people of the inn showed the kindest attention and warmest sympathy. A doctor was sent for, who lived at a village two miles farther on. Beatrice recovered from her faint, but remained unconscious. The doctor considered that her brain was affected. He shook his head solemnly over it; as doctors always do when they have nothing in particular to say. Both Langhetti and Despard knew more about her case than he did.