Then, without another word, without waiting to hear what Laurence had to tell her, she hastened away to her own room, and, locking the door, flung herself upon her bed, where she calmed herself in the orthodox feminine manner—she had a good cry, but the tears were tears of joy!
She already knew that he loved her—now he knew that she loved him. And he was safe!
Meanwhile Laurence, wondering at Lena's—to him—strange behaviour, proceeded to his father's bedroom, where he dismissed the housekeeper and sat down by the Squire's bedside.
"Father," he said, after he had inquired how the sick man felt, "I have learned all."
Mr. Carrington lay motionless. He could not reply. The announcement had overcome him. His face grew very pale.
"What do you mean?" he muttered, raising himself, at length, upon his elbow, and peering into his son's face.
"I mean that I know who and WHAT your enemy is—your enemy who is trying to avenge that which happened over twenty years ago!"
"Who has told you?" asked the Squire excitedly—"not—not 'it'?"
"No, someone who says he died years ago!"