place he gave it to her; the words he spoke, her
blush, her trembling hand as he drew it on her
finger, the pledge he uttered, and which he
made her repeat to him again. He started. What
was that noise? Was that his name he heard
uttered? Yes, some one was calling him. He
hastened to the door, and opened it, and there
stood Emily. She was leaning against the
architrave, like one unable for further effort; her
face bloodless, and her hair in disorder. She
staggered forward, and fell upon his shoulder.
"What is it, Milly, my own dear sister?" cried
he; "what is the matter?"

"Oh, Joseph," cried she, in a voice of anguish,
"what have you done? I could never have
believed this of you!"

"What do you mean—what is it you charge
me with?"

"You, who knew how she loved you—how
her whole heart was your own!"

"But what do you impute to me, Milly
dearest?"

"How cruel! How cruel!" cried she,
wringing her hands.

"I swear to you I do not know of what you
accuse me."

"You have broken her heart," cried she,
vehemently. "She will not survive this cruel
desertion."

"But who accuses me of this?" asked he,
indignantly.

"She, herself, does—she did, at least, so long
as reason remained to her; but now, poor darling,
her mind is wandering, and she is not conscious
of what she says, and yet her cry is, 'Oh,
Joseph, do not leave me. Go to him, Milly; on
your knees beseech him not to desert me. That
I am in fault I know, but I will never again
offend him.' I cannot, I will not, tell you all the
dreadful—all the humiliating things she says;
but through all we can read the terrible trials
she must have sustained at your hands, and
how severely you have used her. Come to her,
at least," cried she, taking his arm. "I do not
ask or want to know what has led to this sad
scene between you; but come to her before it
be too late."

"Let me first of all tell you, Milly——"
He stopped. He meant to have revealed the
truth; but it seemed so ungenerous to be the
accuser, that he stopped, and was silent.

"I don't care to hear anything. You may be
as blameless as you like. What I want is to
save her. Come at once."

Without a word he followed her down the
stairs, and across the hall, and up another small
stair. "Wait a moment," said she, opening
the door, and then as quickly she turned and
beckoned to him to enter.

Still dressed, but with her hair falling loose
about her, and her dress disordered, Florence
lay on her bed as in a trance—so light her
breathing you could see no motion of the chest.
Her eyes were partly opened, and lips parted;
but even these gave to her face a greater look
of death.

"She is sleeping at last," whispered Miss
Grainger. "She, has not spoken since you were
here."

Loyd knelt, down beside the bed, and pressed
his cheeck against her cold hand; and the day
dawn, as it streamed in between the shutters,
saw him still there.

CHAPTER XVII. PARTING SORROWS.

HOUR after hour Loyd knelt beside the bed
where Florence lay, motionless and unconscious.
Her aunt and sister glided noiselessly about,
passed in and out of the room, rarely speaking,
and then but in a whisper. At last a servant
whispered in Loyd's ear a message. He started
and said, "Yes, let him wait;" and then, in a
moment, after, added, "No, say no. I'll not
want the boat—the luggage may be taken back
to my room."

It was a few minutes after this, that Emily
came behind him, and, bending down so as to
speak in his ear, said, "How I thank you, my
dear brother, for this! I know the price of
your devotion—none of us will ever forget it."

He made no answer, but pressed the cold
damp hand he held to his lips.

"Does he know that it is nigh seven o'clock,
Milly, and that he must be at Como a quarter
before eight, or he'll lose the train?" said Miss
Grainger to her niece.

"He knows it all, aunt; he has sent away the
boat; he will not desert us."

"Remember, child, what it is he is
sacrificing. It may chance to be his whole future
fortune."

"He'll stay, let it cost what it may," said
Emily.

"I declare I think I will speak to him. It
is my duty to speak to him," said the old lady,
in her own fussy, officious tone. "I will not
expose myself to the reproaches of his family—
very just reproaches, too, if they imagined we
had detained him. He will lose, not only his
passage out to India, but, not impossibly, his
appointment too. Joseph, Joseph, I have a
word to say to you."

"Dearest aunt, I implore you not to say it,"
cried Emily.

"Nonsense, child. Is it for a mere tiff and
a fit of hysterics a man is to lose his livelihood?
Joseph Loyd, come into the next room for a
moment."

"I cannot leave this," said he, in a low, faint
voice; "say what you have to say to me here."

"It is on the stroke of seven."

He nodded.

"The train leaves a quarter before eight, and
if you don't start by this one you can't reach
Leghorn by Tuesday."

"I know it; I'm not going."

"Do you mean to give up your appointment?"
asked she, in a voice of almost scornful
reproach.

"I mean, that I'll not go."

"What will your friends say to this?" said
she, angrily.

"I have not thought, nor can I think, of that
now; my place is here."