endure. Fancy, James! Think of Cassandra. You know her, Doctor Thryng, of course. They live just below your place. She is the Widow Farwell’s daughter, but her name is Merlin.”

David arrested his impatient stride and, drawing a chair near her, dropped into it. “What about her?” he said. “What is the tragedy?”

“I think, Betty, the hills must keep their own secrets,” said the bishop.

His little wife compressed her lips, glanced over the hedge at the young man who happened at the moment to have straightened from his bent position among the plants and was gazing at their guest, then resumed her sewing.

“Is it something I must not be told?” asked David, quietly. “But I may have my suspicions. Naturally we can’t