one of "her set" to look after Charles, perhaps
to intimidate, so she went to her davenport
and wrote a good practical letter, a little kind
in parts, a little cold in others, but, above all,
ladylike. After all, said Lady Laura, the girl
has some reason to complain. Charles had no
business to make a fool of her. With people of
her class time is money. "I must say, "thought
Lady Laura, beginning to ruminate, "we got
him out of it very cleverly. If I had been one
of the stupid, storming, crying mothers, he'd
have been tied to that girl by this time."

She enclosed a letter of "Charles's" directed
to Violet, which had been lying in her desk for
many days, and sent both to the post.

Hanbury could not bring himself to go near
the place for hours after his arrival. A day had
been fixed for his return, so he was expected.
Violet was flitting about the house anxiously
and restlessly, in a wearing agitation. She was,
in fact, in a sort of low fever at the moment.
Her pale face was seen at many windows looking
out wistfully. A mysterious instinct of some
terror or horror approaching filled all other
hearts in the house.

The post came. With a little swoop Violet
was down at the door. With her hot hand she
got a letter addressed to herself, and knew Lady
Laura's writing. She gasped as she tore it open.
The others were on the stairs hurrying after her
—but too late.  But there was Fermor's letter
inside, and, with a cry of joy, she flew up-stairs.
"He has written!  He has written!" she said.
"I knew it! I knew it."

What followed may be conceived—when the
first lines of that letter, written ever so tenderly
and gently, trembled before her eyes. She had
instinct enough to guess it all. That was her
last blow. How was it to be expected that so
frail a creature should endure so much. The little
resolution—the little "manfulness," if it may be
called, which she had kept up for the sake of
others, had now given way. The waters rushed in.

That night all was changed into a house of
sickness. A wretched mother of a wretched
daughter, aged and feeble herself, could not
endure all these shocks. The low fever present
in Violet's hot hands spread violently. The
local doctor, the same who had been at their
little feast, came and began his work. He did
what he could, yet he was not of "the skilful."
Yet one of greater skill, even that Mr. Cade
whose touch had so miraculously healed the
bruised Fermor—(O sweet days! basking in a
golden light, and removed centuries away!)—even
he could not avail much more. A quiet patient;
giving "no trouble," waiting for the moment
eagerly.

Two miserable faces, worn and haggard,
watched that travelling away spirit-ward: that
soft face gradually spiritualised into a shadow.
She was as quiet as a child, which indeed she
was; so quiet, so calm, that they began to
whisper doubtfully to themselves that she was
growing better.

One Sunday morning the unskilful local doctor
ran in to see her as he went to his church. The
sun came in so brightly; the new flowers which
thoughtful hands sent every day to fill the
room, looked so fresh and gay; and there was
such a reflected brightness on Violet's face, and
she spoke so softly and calmly, though still
with her old weariness, that he was quite
confounded. "The turn has come," he said below
in the drawing-room. "My dear friends, there is
every hope. I say so seriously. I do indeed.
I am the last man in the world that would
encourage vain expectations. I tell you, I am
astonished at the change."

Grateful eyes were bent on this angel of
goodness: full and suffused hearts could not trust
themselves to speak. "Take her out," he said,
turning to Louis, and pointing to Pauline;
"this fine sun will do her good. She is
exhausted with all this watching, and it will give
you strength."

The faithful maid remained with Violet, who
seemed, from her soft half-closed eyes, to be on
the verge of sleep. On the last night she had
slept a little. The brother and sister went
out, too grateful to omit anything they were
told to do. They wandered on along a certain
green lane lined with trees, a walk the sisters
were fond of, for half an hour. They heard
the church bells at a distance, and from the
green lane could see the congregation in a
gay parti-coloured ribbon unwinding from the
porch. They then turned to go home, for they
were fearful of staying too long, and met John
Hanbury on the way. The air was delicious.
The three walked together slowly, and in a low
voice they told him of the happy change.

When they were not a hundred yards from
home, they saw some one running to them and
beckoning violently. It was the faithful maid,
with a scared and terrified face, the certain
instinct of danger. They hurried down to the
house to meet her. As she passed them she did
not stop, and they only caught the words, "For
the doctor!"

They were in the room in a second. A frantic
woman was on her knees at the bedside, hardly
recognisable as Mrs. Manuel. There was a face lying
there, whiter than they had ever seen face before,
and a sort of light seemed to flutter over it from
the eyes to the lips, from the lips to the eyes
back again. Sweet, soft Violet—sweet, soft,
persecuted Violet—was drifting slowly away out
of the rude rough waters which had been too
troubled for her gentle little soul.

As the three came round her, either the sound
or the sudden appearance seemed to stay that
gliding progress; faint colour floated back into
the pale face, the eyelids were lifted slowly; and
from those eyes, not yet glazing, stole out gentle
recognition. Light hovered about her lips, which
seemed to move, either attempting to speak or
trying to meet her sister's. Now, happily, the
old troubles, the old doubts, the old expectancy
—troubles, anguish, all—were dropping fast
behind. Pauline stooped over, and the lips