Her face lit up.

"Never shall I forget it! Never! Your
nobleness, your kindness, your goodness and
self-sacrifice. I have thought of it since, again
and again, and in my own troubles, sickness, and
some trials, contemptible, indeed, near yours,
it has comforted me to think that you—you
understood me——"

Mr. Tillotson paused a moment, and then said,
calmly, "But we must look to the future now.
Consult me as you did then. If you only knew
how happy these things make me. Forgive me
if I speak plainly; but this may not go on.
I can guess— I may say I know— how matters
stand with you here. They do not understand
you— cannot understand you."

She shook her head. "No," she said, "it is
a mere foolish impatience. I shall school myself
in time. You discovered," she added, "what
should have been a secret. It is an old story
now. No; far better that I should go on and
bear everything."

There was a pause. "And Ross," said Mr.
Tillotson, abruptly. "How is it with your
friend Mr. Ross? He, I believe, is away."

"Yes," she answered; "in Gibraltar."

"I can understand the sort of interest you
still have in him. I dare say, with all his wildness
and ungovernable temper, there is much
good below?"

"No," she answered, with eyes that flashed a
little. "I thought so once; but we know him
now as I fear he is— cold, selfish, hardened.
That dreadful time which you recollect, we had
sent to him, and he knew it all, what was coming,
and afterwards what had come, and yet he sent
us back such a cruel letter. From that night I
gave him up for ever."

"For ever!" repeated Mr. Tillotson, eagerly.
"Then, O then here is one chance more opening
to me of heaven and of happiness. You
say there is no release for you; that you must
go on and suffer. Then I tell you, no, no!
There is release open to you, a poor, halting
release, but, such as it is, better a thousand times
than this miserable life. If I dare speak now,
as you spoke on that night; if I may go on and
say what would, might free you——?"

A strange look, half of wonder, half of pain,
came into her face, and she did not answer.
The cloud came back into his.

"Ah! I see," he answered. "The old blunder.
No matter, I am long past such shame as
that——"

But then an eager glowing flush seemed to
chase away that first expression of hers. "No,
indeed," she said, in a voice exquisitely tender.
"I am the same now as I was then on that night.
What I said then I say now; and if you care for
me as you did at St. Alans, if I could have any
share, as you once told me, in bringing back
light and happiness to your life, in changing the
current of your days, in doing anything to serve
you, with my life, then I am here ready, and
speak to you as I did on the night I came to
you from St. Alans."

Joy, doubt, even rapture, was crowding into
his face. "Are these dreams? he said, in a
voice that almost trembled. "This happiness
is not for me. No, no; you are thinking of a
promise—and Ross—— "

Again her eyes flashed. "We have done with
him. He has done with us. For years I pitied
him; thought there was good underneath. Now
he has shown us what he is—heartless, vindictive,
cruel."

"But," said Mr. Tillotson, sadly, "do you
not most naturally care for him still? Even I,
whom I know he hates for some reason, can feel
nothing against him. You were brought up
with him; you have an interest in him, and—— "

"No," she answered, gravely. "I show you
my heart, and it is as I have told you."

"Then it is true, and no dream," he said, in
a sort of rapture; "and I am to learn to live,
after all. Dearest Miss Millwood, then I once
more hear you as I did on that night, and at
this hour ask you to be my guardian angel, and
raise me up from that depth of misery in which
all my days—— "

The devout eyes looked up to heaven. Her
hand was laid softly in his, the gentle voice
seemed to chime like a bell.

"As I told you," she said; "from that
night, whatever you asked, or wished even,
it would be my wish, my joy, my pride, my
delight to carry out!"

A little cloud of doubt and hesitation came
into his face, but he took her hand. At this
crisis they heard steps and voices on the walk.
The Tilneys were returning home—only the
Tilneys, no McKerchier. They heard Mr.
Tilney's voice outside in the garden:

"Tillotson here? God bless me! Where?
When did he come? Bring him in." And with
numerous questions he led the way into the
drawing-room. There was a violent rustling of silks
behind him. The mother and sisters came in
behind and looked on in astonishment. Their
trained eyes saw that "something had happened,"
or was on the eve of happening. There was a
scornful look on their mouths; their heads gave
a toss. The McKerchier disappointment had
affected them sensibly. They broke into the
usual conventional expressions: "It was such a
surprise," &c.

Mr. Tillotson only waited a moment; he was
eager to be gone.

"But, my dear friend," said Mr. Tilney,
faintly, "dinner—a joint—I want to speak to
you." But Mr. Tillotson took his leave very
hastily.

"Now, now! So shabby," said the other;
"I can't understand it. Here we are at church,
on our knees, doing our little duty, and after all,
when we come to think of it, Tillotson—— By
the way, an uncommonly good sermon by a man
of the world. But what was I saying? I'll go
with you a bit of the way."

Mr. Tillotson was glad of this. On that bit
of the way he hurriedly told him what had
happened, which had the effect of making the
other stop short in the middle of the road and say:

"God bless him!" with singular fervour.