"Ah, I know. I understand. He does not
care to see me. However, in this life there are
ends for all things, which are sure to come.
When this illness has passed away, we shall
see."

"Well, now," said the captain, gravely, "to
say the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,
all this is a sore pity. It is, indeed. It's a
heart-breaking business, and it's all—all from
a little foolishness—nothing short of it. No,
indeed. Though I must say Tillotson has
done his best all through, poor fellow. After
all, my dear, what's his sin, except in liking
you from the very bottom of his heart, as
I can take my book-oath to before any magistrate?
And, after all, it was very well when a
girl, and all that. But now that Ross is going,
or as good as going——"

She rose, and almost awed the captain with
her stately look. "So you have joined in it!"
she said. "I thought you were better and kinder.
No matter. What can I expect? I am
prepared for everything. But you must not ask
me to listen to this. Let those who suspect,
justify themselves, and use all the means that
suspicion uses. I disdain to say a word in
explanation, nor alter my course in the slightest. I
have some dignity, to which I owe this."

She left him. The captain was in a mystery
of wonder and puzzle. "Egad! she spoke like
a novel," he said. "And her dignity, too! My
goodness! Women, the creatures! I never
was or could be up to them. But it's a
pitiful case altogether. Yet she spoke very
fair; on my word and credit she did." Then
he went up and joined his friend.

That day dragged on slowly. It grew almost
dark, and the east wind still came with more
fierceness round the corners. Stout and strong
old gentlemen found their faces contorted as
they felt themselves pierced through and through,
and that night cowered over the fire. It was a
miserable day for young and old.

About four o'clock Mrs. Tillotson's carriage
came to the door, according to custom. She
had been sitting the whole day in a dismal dream
or reverie. Then, from pride, she determined
to go through her usual routine of life, make no
change whatever, and so went up-stairs to dress.
She came down a sad statue, floated out, and
drove away.

Now were the lamps lighted in the street.
The air had grown more steel-coloured. Yet,
according to her mechanical routine, which
she disdained to alter, she went into the Park,
and drove round and round. What was she
thinking of in that drive? Of cruel suspicions,
where she had been only too faithful and
devoted, and where she, if the whole truth were
but known, had reason to feel injured? Or
was she thinking of Ross, the outcast, whose
ship was lying in the dock, and was to put to
sea to-morrow, and whom she was never to see
again? Defiant when she felt innocent, she
disdained concealment, and a letter of hers to him
—a farewell one, which she had promised to
write was lying on the hall table, unconcealed,
left there to be posted. Above, the invalid and
his friend sat by the fire, and now scarcely
spoke in the darkness. At last the captain went
away.

About five o'clock came a ring at the door,
and Martha Malcolm opened it to that Mr.
Grainger who used to come there. He said,
hurriedly, he wished to see Mrs. Tillotson on
very important business—must see her at once.
Where was she, then? The grim servant told
him with a sort of alacrity where he was likely
to find her, and he hurried away. Then she
got her own shawl and bonnet, and herself
posted out in the same direction.

She got to the Park. She had not to wait
long. There were but few carriages there, and
she soon recognised the Tillotson Brougham.
Mrs. Tillotson sunk back in her reverie with
dejection in her fine face. In a moment, Martha
saw Mr. Grainger at the carriage window.

"I beg your pardon for this," he said, eagerly;
"but I have just been to the house, and followed
you here. Don't be alarmed, but a serious thing
has just happened."

"To whom?" she said, in a flutter.

"I was going down myself to-night," he said,
"to see poor Ross, when this telegram reached
me. There is no light to read it. But I can
give you the substance. He says he was set on
by some American last night about the docks
and beaten. Poor, poor fellow! I know what
all that means; it was some quarrel that he cannot
keep out of. And then he says—these are
his own words—'Give her this message: tell
her, if I could see her before I die, which I dare
say I shall before morning, it would make me
very happy. Implore her to come to me, for I
have much to tell her. But I know she dare not
do it.'"

"Now," said Grainger, "I can speak with
more knowledge than he has. I believe that,
conscious of there being nothing but humanity
in the case, you do dare to do it. Am I right?"

"Poor, poor Ross!" she answered, in an
agony of sympathy. "I knew it would come
to this in the end. What am I to do? Yes,
I do dare to do it."

"Then, if so," he said, speaking very
hurriedly, and looking at his watch, "there is not a
second to be lost. There is not twenty-five
minutes to catch the train. There is no time
to go home. You can go to-night, and be
up again early in the morning. Shall I tell
you what to do? Write, write; here is a
slip—write to your husband, and tell him
the true state of the case without concealment.
When the dying call us, there can be no
absurd scruples. I shall not go with you, for
fear of any remark. Or suppose we drive to
the next stationer's; you can write there, and I
will take it to your husband, and tell him how
it is. Recollect, it is a dying man calls for
you—calls you to his bedside."

It seemed noble, and a work of charity. A
strange enthusiasm came and filled her. After a
second's deliberation, "Yes," she said, "I will
go."