cruel pain. I can't—I won't believe that it was my doing!"
"You may be certain that it was," returned the other without mercy, "and I think, in your inmost heart, you have long suspected that it was so."
Betsey was no longer to be silenced, not even by David's insistent pressure on her arm.
"It's not true," she burst out. "We saw ourselves where the lightning struck, that began the fire. The chimney was split from top to bottom."
"Yes?" assented Donald, turning to her and speaking in a tone of hard, cold quiet. "You can prove that, I suppose? You can show the marks to my uncle here? Real evidence would comfort him greatly."
"No—no," she faltered in reply. "We were exploring in the ruins and some of the walls fell. The marks of the lightning don't show now. But we both saw them."
"I will hold to my own opinion still," answered Donald Reynolds, "and my uncle, though he would like to, will not be able to disagree with me. Isn't it—hullo, there's something wrong with the old man."
For Mr. Reynolds was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, unmoving and unhearing. Betsey ran to his side and took up one of his hands. It was limp and lifeless, although she could feel the
