one could know how bitter-keen I wanted to see
you."

Again they sank into silence. Ellinor felt as
if she would fain be away and active in procuring
his release; but she also perceived how
precious her presence was to him; and she did
not like to leave him a moment before the time
allowed for. His voice had changed to a weak
piping old man's quaver, and between the times
of his talking he seemed to relapse into a dreamy
state; but through it all he held her hand tight,
as though afraid that she would leave him.

So the hour elapsed, with no more spoken
words than those above. From time to time
Ellinor's tears dropped down upon her lap;
she could not restrain them, though she scarce
knew why she cried just then.

At length the turnkey said that the time
allowed for the interview was ended. Ellinor
spoke no word; but rose, and bent down and
kissed the old man's forehead, saying,

"I shall come back to-morrow. God keep
and comfort you."

So, almost without an articulate word from
him in reply (he rose up, and stood on his
shaking legs, as she bade him farewell—putting
his hand to his head with the old habitual mark
of respect), she went her way, swiftly out of
the prison, swiftly back with Mr. Johnson to his
house, scarcely patient or strong enough in her
hurry to explain to him fully all that she meant
to do. She only asked him a few absolutely
requisite questions; and informed him of her
intention to go straight to London to see Judge
Corbet.

Just before the railway carriage in which she
was seated started on the journey, she bent
forward and put out her hand once more to Mr.
Johnson. "To-morrow I will thank you for all,"
she said. "I cannot now."

It was about the same time that she had
reached Hellingford on the previous night, that
she arrived at the Great Western station on this
evening—past eight o'clock. On the way she
had remembered and arranged many things:
one important question she had omitted to ask
Mr. Johnson; but that was easily remedied.
She had not inquired where she could find
Judge Corbet; if she had, Mr. Johnson could
probably have given her his professional address.
As it was, she asked for a Post-office Directory
at the hotel, and looked out for his private
dwelling—128, Hyde Park-gardens.

She rang for a waiter.

"Can I send a messenger to Hyde Park-
gardens," she said, hurrying on to her business,
tired and worn-out as she was. "It is only to
ask if Judge Corbet is at home this evening.
If he is, I must go and see him."

The waiter was a little surprised, and would
gladly have had her name to authorise the
inquiry; but she could not bear to send it; it
would be bad enough that first meeting, without
the feeling that he, too, had had time to
recal all the past days. Better to go in upon him
unprepared, and plunge into the subject.

The waiter returned with the answer while she
yet was pacing up and down the room restlessly,
nerving herself for the interview.

"The messenger has been to Hyde Park-
gardens, ma'am. The Judge and Lady Corbet
are gone out to dinner."

Lady Corbet! Of course Ellinor knew that
he was married. Had she not been present at
the wedding in East Chester Cathedral; but
somehow these recent events had so carried
her back to old times, that the intimate
association of the names, "the Judge and Lady
Corbet," seemed to awaken her out of some
dream.

"Oh, very well," she said, just as if these
thoughts were not passing rapidly through her
mind. "Let me be called at seven to-morrow
morning, and let me have a cab at the door to
Hyde Park-gardens at eight."

And so she went to bed; but scarcely to
sleep. All night long she had the scenes of
those old times, the happy, happy days of her
youth, the one terrible night that cut all
happiness short, present before her. She could
almost have fancied that she heard the long-
silent sounds of her father's step, her father's
way of breathing, the rustle of his newspaper as
he hastily turned it over, coming through the
lapse of years; the silence of the night. She
knew that she had the little writing-case of her
girlhood with her, in her box. The treasures of
the dead that it contained, the morsel of dainty
sewing, the little sister's golden curl, the half-
finished letter to Mr. Corbet, were all there.
She took them out, and looked at each
separately; looked at them long—long and
wistfully. "Will it be of any use to me?" she
questioned of herself, as she was about to put
her father's letter back into its receptacle. She
read the last words over again, once more:
"From my death-bed I adjure you to stand her
friend; I will beg pardon on my knees for
anything."

"I will take it," thought she. "I need not
bring it out; most likely there will be no need
for it, after what I shall have to say. All is so
altered, so changed between us, as utterly as
if it never had been, that I think I shall have
no shame in showing it him for my own part of it.
While, if he sees poor papa's, dear, dear papa's
suffering humility, it may make him think more
gently of one who loved him once, though
they parted in wrath with each other, I'm
afraid."

So she took the letter with her when she
drove to Hyde Park-gardens.

Every nerve in her body was in such a high
state of tension that she could have screamed
out at the cabmen's boisterous knock at the door.
She got out hastily, before any one was ready or
willing to answer such an untimely summons;
paid the man double what he ought to have had;
and stood there, sick, trembling, and humble.

CHAPTER XVI. AND LAST.

"Is Judge Corbet at home? Can I see
him?" she asked of the footman, who at length
answered the door.