the captain. "But what would you say to a
little place, with a garden, and the honeysuckles,
and small panes of glass, and a little gate in
front, and a view of the church always in front?
There's a gentleman here come to let us have
the loan of it until you get well, and —"

"Why," said Mr. Tillotson, lifting himself
eagerly, "that must be their place — the Tilneys'.
Ah! Impossible!"

"The very same," said the captain; "readv
there to step into. Nothing could be handsomer
of Mr. North or Norbury —egad, I am
no hand at names. And he says it's looking
lovely at this moment; all over roses, and fruits,
and flowers, and honeysuckle, so that you can't
see a patch of the house itself. Why, I'd buy
it if I had money, to-morrow, my dear boy —"

In less than an hour more, sick Mr. Tillotson
was lying in the parlour of the little rustic
house. It was now literally overgrown with
flowers. Opposite was the great cathedral,
rising with a soft magnificence that, even in all
his pains, quite soothed him. It was drawing
on towards night. Presently the captain suddenly
started mysteriously, and went softly to
the door. There was a softer sound upon the
gravel of the little walk; yet not so soft as but
the dull ear of the sick man had caught it. He
half lifted himself on his sofa. "I hear her,"
he said; "she has come! Ah, angel, sweetest
comforter!"  As he spoke, he lifted his
arms; for the door had opened, and she, the
true angel and comforter, and who had soothed
and brought life and comfort to so many, now
came floating in — was by his side in a moment,
bending over him. Then, with the little diamond-paned
windows open, through which were
wafted in the overpowering scent of flowers;
through which could be seen the subdued blue of
fading evening and the yellow pile with its great
windows transparent as lanterns. It seemed,
indeed, the old days again, before suspicion and
worldliness, and trouble, and harassing disquietude
had entered in. It seemed a tranquil dream.

CHAPTER XXXV. MR. TILLOTSON FINDS REST.

YET sweet as were these dreams, they were
scarcely so sweet and peaceful as those closing
hours. It was like the cool calm evening of
a long, long sultry day; and Mr. Tillotson,
in that delicious retreat, felt like a weary and
footsore wayfarer, who had been worn out
with toiling on through the dust, and had
now sunk beside a fountain. Yet he was
not sorry. His had been indeed a weary life.
The doctor had reluctantly pronounced that he
could do nothing — that fatal night and the stabbing
winds had done their work too securely
on his delicate chest. There was really no
hope. A heavy congestion was mounting
steadily from his chest upward.

The faithful captain could not conceal his
trouble; and though performing wonders considering
his years, and being a prodigy of usefulness,
although he depreciated all his efforts
in the most disrespectful tone — "We'll have
you on your legs again this day three weeks,
please God. Wait until you see what Sir
Duncan, the Queen's own feller, will say. He's
the boy. Why, I had the same thing — my
chest rammed up like an old musket — and
faith, I thought I might as well be ordering
my coffin, when he came, and with a touch
made all right. Wait, I say, for the Queen's
Own. He's the boy."

This was only to comfort Mrs. Tillotson, now
in sore trouble; yet doing her duties with
calm impassibility. But when she came near
her husband, her face lit up with a light and
interest he had never noticed before; and which,
though she did not speak, an instinct told him
was affection. "I am so, so happy," he said
to her again and again, and holding her hand;
"I have never been so happy in my life;" and
he added, with that low whisper in which he
could only speak, "I think this all cheaply purchased
by that night!"

Alas! here was the "Queen's Own" — having
snatched a few precious hours, valued at so
many golden guineas an hour — come down
to pass his judgment, and send a chill to the
faithful captain; not indeed that he affected for
his friend any extravagant regard, feeling that
for "men" in general this thing was to come;
that "every fellow" had his chance: "to-day,
you — to-morrow, me;"  with more of the same
rough philosophy. But with women it was
wholly different — the old gentle chivalry of the
captain stepped in and "made his old heart
bleed," as it was doing now for Mrs. Tillotson.
"How," he said to Sir Duncan, "how can she
be told — the gentle noble girl — all she has
gone through! and the pair of them, doctor,
between you and me, just beginning to find out
that they love each other! Try and do something
— do!"

This was as though Sir Duncan was unwilling
to save the patient when he could do so. "My
dear friend," he said, gravely, "you have been a
soldier, and it's of no use talking fine phrases.
The man can't last; I couldn't give him,"
added Sir Duncan, dropping his voice and looking
at his watch, as if to read the number of
days there — "I couldn't give him two days
more — if so much."

The captain was aghast. "And what's to
become of her?" Sir Duncan himself, seizing
a favourable opportunity, humanely undertook
the task of telling Mr. Tillotson this fatal news.
This he did in a plain business-like way not
"unfeelingly," as some of his enemies said for
he had made the same announcement to some
thousands in his experience. Mr. Tillotson
welcomed this news very cheerfully; and told
Sir Duncan that he knew of it a week ago; and
begged him "not to tell her."

On the night of this official declaration, Mrs.
Tillotson, unwearied, unfailing, gentle, was
sitting by him — her sweet face bending over
him. It was about ten o'clock. The diamond-paned
windows were half open, and a band of
rich and golden orange streaked the sky across,
passing behind the cathedral, being seen through
the transparent windows, and forming a rich
ribbon of gorgeous light at the back of the tall