Compelled by the silence and my own bounding pulses to look at her in my own despite, I caught the sweet and elevated look with which she laid her hand on the Book, and asked myself if her presence here was not a self-accusation, which would bring satisfaction to nobody--which would sink her and hers into an ignominy worse than the conviction of the brother whom she was supposedly there to save.
Tortured by this fear, I awaited events in indescribable agitation.
The cool voice of Mr.Moffat broke in upon my gloom.

Carmel had reseated herself, after taking the oath, and the customary question could be heard: "Your name, if you please." "Carmel Cumberland." "Do you recognise the prisoner, Miss Cumberland ?" "Yes; he is my brother." A thrill ran through the room.

The lingering tone, the tender accent, told.

Some of the feeling she thus expressed seemed to pass into every heart which contemplated the two.

From this moment on, he was looked upon with less harshness; people showed a disposition to discern innocence, where, perhaps, they had secretly desired, until now, to discover guilt.
"Miss Cumberland, will you be good enough to tell us where you were, at or near the hour of ten, on the evening of your sister's death ?" "I was in the club-house--in the house you call The Whispering Pines." At this astounding reply, unexpected by every one present save myself and the unhappy prisoner, incredulity, seasoned with amazement, marked every countenance.