horror of the mere idea, which placed a barrier between them, made her turn cold, and she resolutely put it from her. Cyril was the man she loved; the man in whom she had every reason to believe. He had solemnly sworn that he was innocent of her father's blood, and if she entertained a grain of affection for him she was bound to believe his word, even in the face of strong evidence to the contrary. He must be guiltless; he was guiltless, as she assured herself; his looks and words and bearing convinced her of his guiltlessness. In one way or another, the promised explanation would solve the difficult problem. But when would that explanation be made?

Then, again, Mrs. Tunks must know somewhat of the truth, since she had so truly foretold the coming of the negro. Bella, entirely lacking the mystical sense, had no belief in visions, and assumed that the old woman, for her own ends, had played a comedy, based upon actual fact. Taking this view, the girl walked towards the hut of the witch-wife, resolute to learn how much Mrs. Tunks knew concerning Cyril's past life. Something she must know, else she could not have hinted at the appearance of the negro. Bella herself was ignorant that her lover had so sinister a servant, but it seemed that Mrs. Tunks was better informed. And since the old hag knew so much, she must know more. A few questions would doubtless bring forth the information, and then Bella felt that she would know how to act. But the position was extremely difficult, and the skein of life very tangled.

Thinking in this desultory way, she reached the end of the corn-field, and was about to turn along the pathway leading to the hut, when she heard her name called anxiously. Looking up, she saw Dora Ankers on the hither side of the boundary channel.

"Oh, Bella! I am so glad to see you," sang out the Marshely school-mistress volubly. "I really didn't want to go to the Manor and meet that horrid aunt of yours. Come with me, dear; he is waiting at my cottage."

"Who is waiting?" demanded Bella, greatly surprised by this address.

"Oh, my dear, as if to a girl in love there is any he but the one he in the world," said Dora, who was sentimental and impatient.

"Do you mean to say that Mr. Lister——"

"Mr. Lister? Oh, you cruel-hearted girl: do you call him that?"

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