I thought of you. "Will you be generous enough
to forget what is past, and let me——"

"This is too much joy," he said, in a
transport. "What shall we do? What would you
have me do? Speak!" (All the while the
grim Martha listening.)

"If you could spare a few hours and come
with me——"

"I am ready," he said, eagerly. "Hours,
days, if you will. Let us see about the train.
Where——"

"O, I know," she said, hurriedly. "I asked.
There is one in half an hour. But how could I
be so selfish?"

"Selfish!" he said. "It is real pleasure to
me. You have done me a favour—your uncle has.
Alas! I am not skilful to do much for him, but
everything else shall be set right. Depend upon
me. You shall be happy. We shall all be
happy. No! I forget!" And he stopped
suddenly in the midst of all his preparation.
"Ah! why didn't you come to me before?"

"It is not too late," she said, in agony.

"Not for you—no. But for me. Yes, yes
—I have always been too late. No matter; let
us go now."

Wondering at these mysterious words, she
turned to go.

"A moment," he said; and rushed up-stairs,
where he passed the grim Martha, and met
the captain limping out with a face of wonder.
"I must go," he said, hurriedly; "friends in
deep distress. But I shall be back in time—
plenty of time. Say something to them and
explain."

"What!" said the captain, gravely, "going
away with that young lady?"

"I cannot help it," said the other,
passionately. "I tell you I will explain it all to
you in the morning. I must go. I really
must."

CHAPTER XXII. A MARRIAGE.

HE hurried down. Martha Malcolm let him
pass without a word. Outside he found the
maid that had come with Ada. They drove away
with speed to the railway station, for it was now
close upon the stroke of twelve, and the return
train set off at that hour.

She hardly spoke at the station. There were
very few passengers, and as they walked up the
platform, their feet echoed as in a vast illuminated
wilderness. The three got into a carriage,
and it presently set off.

He had a hundred things to say to her
which he could not say, for her maid was with
them; and, indeed, he now felt that it must be
simply a stern sense of duty, and no more, that
must lead him all through the work of this
night. She, too, was not inclined to say much,
thinking of the scene to which she was fast
hurrying. As they drew nearer and nearer, he
felt the sudden surprise which had led him into
this step pass away, and the late feeling of
injury to which he had trained himself, return.
"I am at least useful in a difficulty," he thought,
bitterly, and looked over at her. The dull lamp
played on the hair, as golden as it was of old;
the eyes were as devotional, but more restless;
yet the eternal softness, the old Angelico picture,
was there still. He grew ashamed of himself.

Towards three o'clock they arrived at the
station, that was fast asleep, or at least nodding, with
no cabs near, and only a single porter. The moon
was out as they walked away from it into the silent
sleeping cathedral town, where the dean and all
the canons were fast locked in slumber; the dean
dreaming that he had been promised the next
bishopric by a courteous gentleman with a star;
the canons dreaming sweetly that they were
deans. Here was the little Close, a sheet of
moonlight, and the grand cathedral, which poor
Mr. Tilney had found such a favourite text.
And there was the small house, with a light or
two in the window.

"There it is," she whispered, and he felt her
arm tremble on his. "O, my poor friend!"

He gave her comfort. In another minute
they had stolen into the house, and passed by the
open door of the parlour, where were the flowers
for the dinner-table, and the glittering glass set
out, as they had been by the now stiff fingers of
the poor old equerry.

Though Mr. Tillotson felt that Mr. Tilney
himself was the first object, there was one he
thought of before that. When with soft eyes
she came to him and said, "Will you come
to him now?" he said as quietly, "In one
moment;" and went away to find those who,
while they stayed, were almost a contagion
in the house. A couple of minutes, and those
dreadful familiars were sauntering quietly away
across the Close. From the window, she saw
their figures clear and sharp in the moonlight,
and the terrible scarlet of the muffler well
revealed. Everything was so bright, that they
looked like clumsy pilgrims in a clear starry
painting.

She shrank away, and flew down joyfully to
him. The tenderness, the delicacy of this act,
went to her heart, and as she met him at the
foot of the stairs, she could have bent down and
kissed his hands.

"Now we can breathe freely," he said. "Let
us go and see about poor Mr. Tilney. They
tell me he is better."

They entered softly. Already all the fiery
remedies had been put in force—the blisterings,and
savage burnings, and what not—and with good
effect. The miserable women, still in portions
of their finery, were gathered about him, waiting
for some result. Just as Mr. Tillotson and
Ada entered the room, consciousness was
returning, and it must be said they were not
wholly such worldlings as not to forget every
other dismal association in the house, and
think only of the unhappy parent that was
before them. The doctor was giving them hope,
much pleased at the result of his desperate
assaults with fire and steel, when their eyes
fell on Mr. Tillotson. With the quickness of
women, they knew in a second that he stood
there for aid, protection, comfort, and salvation,
and from Mrs. Tilney's lips escaped a cry of joy.

The train that was to take him back to town
went at five. There was but little time to spare.