Considering that her father was dead and even now was being laid in an untimely grave, Cyril might have come to her dressed in mourning, unless—ah, unless. "Oh!"—she stretched out an arm as he advanced slowly—"don't come near me—don't come near me."

"Bella!" He stopped in sheer surprise. "Bella, darling, don't you know me?"

"Ah, yes, I know you," she gasped, retreating towards the chair. "Perhaps I know you too well."

"Because I have not been to see you before?" he asked, surprised. "Bella, dearest, I would have come but that I have been abroad during the week. I had to go to Paris to see a—a friend of mine."

She noted the hesitation and shivered. "When did you go?"

Cyril came near, and again she shrank away. "On the afternoon when your father found us in the corn-field."

"It's not true; it's not true. How can you lie to me?"

"Bella!" Cyril stopped short again, and in the faint light she could see that he looked thoroughly puzzled and amazed. "What do you mean?"

The girl's legs refused to support her any longer, and she sank into the chair. "My father is being buried," she gasped.

"I know, I know," he replied sympathetically. "I went to the funeral, but finding you were not present, I came here to comfort you."

"You—you—you went to the funeral?" her eyes dilated.

"Why should I not go. After all, even though we quarrelled, he was your father, and a last tribute of respect——"

"Oh, stop, stop. You can say this to me—to me, of all people?"

Lister frowned and pinched his lip. "This lonely house and this cold, dull room have unnerved you," he said after a pause. "I make every allowance for what you have gone through, but——"

"But you know, you understand."

"Know what? understand what?" he inquired sharply.

"I said nothing at the inquest. I held my tongue. I never——"

"Bella!" Cyril, now thoroughly roused, advanced and seized her wrists in no gentle grasp, "are you crazy, talking in this way?"

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