“Hartley, you horrify me,” said Mary, after she had listened to her brother’s account of his visit. “He must have been ill or under some strange influence.”

“Influence?” cried Salis drily; “well, that means drink, Mary.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried the poor girl warmly. “He told you he was ill, and he may have been taking some very potent medicine.”

“Extremely,” said Salis.

“Hartley, for shame!” cried Mary, with her eyes flashing. “You left here an hour ago full of faith and trust in the friend of many years’ standing. You find him ill and peculiar in his manner, and you come back here ready to think all manner of evil of him. Is this just?”

“But he was so very strange and peculiar, my child. You cannot imagine how queer.”

“Hartley!” cried Mary warmly; “how can you! Horace North must be very ill, and needs his friend’s help. Your account of his acts and words suggests delirium. Go back to him at once.”

“Go back to him?”

“Yes; at once. Have you forgotten his goodness to us – how he snatched Leo back from the jaws of death?”

“You think I ought to go, Mary?” said Salis dubiously.

“I shall think my brother is under some strange influence – suffering from wounded pride – if he does not frankly go to our old friend’s help.”

“I’ll go back at once,” cried Salis excitedly. “Why, Mary, when you were active and strong, I always thought I had to teach and take care of you. Now you are an invalid, you seem to teach and guide me.”

“No, no,” said Mary tenderly. “It is only that I lie here for many hours alone, thinking of what is best for us all. Not yet, Hartley: I want to say something else.”

“Yes,” he said, going down on one knee by her couch, and holding her hand; “what is it?”

“I want to say a few words to you about Leo,” said Mary, after a pause.

“About Leo?” said Salis uneasily.

“Yes, dear. I tell you I lie here for many hours thinking about you both. I want to speak about Leo and – Mr North.”

“Yes,” said Salis gravely, as Leo’s manner when the servant came from the Hall flashed upon his mind. “What do you wish to say?”

“Do you consider that there is any engagement between them?”

“I hardly know what to say. North seemed deeply attached to her.”

“Yes,” said Mary; “but I have felt puzzled by his manner lately. He has not been.”

“And he has not sent her flowers as he used.”

“No; I have noticed that. Has Mr North felt that Leo has slighted him in any way.”

“Why, Mary,” cried Salis excitedly, “what a brain you have! My dear child, you have hit upon the cause of his strange manner. You noticed – you noticed Leo’s manner when the news came of Candlish’s illness – for I suppose I must call it so.”

“Yes,” said Mary, with a sigh. “I noticed it.”

“And North must have seen something. Mary, my girl, what shall I do?”

“What shall you do?”

“Yes; I am divided between my sister and my friend. There! I must speak out. It would be the saving of Leo if she could become North’s wife; and yet, much as I love her and wish for her happiness, I feel as if I am being unjust to North to let matters go farther.”

Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some minutes before she felt that she could trust her voice so that it should not betray her.

“It would be for Leo’s happiness could she say truly that she could love and honour Horace North,” Mary whispered at last; “but it will never be, Hartley. Leo will never marry as we wish.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Salis sadly; “and the more I think of it, the more it seems to me that you have hit upon North’s trouble. Leo’s anxiety about that scoundrel has disgusted poor Horace. What shall I do?”

“Your friend is ill,” said Mary sadly; “act as a friend should. Leave the rest: we can do nothing there.”

“My poor darling!” said Salis, “you are the good angel of our little home. There, I’ll go to North at once.”

Meanwhile a conversation was going on in Leo’s room.

She had suffered intensely during the past few days, which had seemed to her like months of suspense and agony. Every stroke at the door had seemed to be a visitor to expose her to her brother, or else she believed it was North coming to reproach her; and, though she told herself that she would be defiant and could tell him he was mad ever to have thought about her, she shivered at each step upon the gravel.

The scene in the vestry had shaken her nerves terribly. The news of Tom Candlish’s serious injuries had added to her trouble; and, combined with this, there was the horrible suspense as to her lover’s state. In a way, she was a prisoner, and any attempt to hear news of the sufferer at the Hall would bring down upon her an angry reproof from her brother.

After the news of his state, Tom Candlish’s name was not mentioned at the Rectory. She dared not ask or show by word or look the anxiety she felt, and yet there were times when she would have given years of her life for a few words of tidings.

Unable to bear the suspense any longer, and after thinking of a dozen schemes, she at last decided upon one, which was the most unlucky she could have devised.

It was the nearest to her hand, and, in quite a gambling spirit, she snatched at it recklessly.

She was in her room, reading, when Dally entered.

“Is my brother in?” she said quietly. “Yes, miss; along with Miss Mary, talking.”

“Are you very busy, Dally?”

“Yes, miss, ’most worked to death,” said the girl tartly.

“But a walk would do you good, Dally. Would you take a note for me?”

“Take a note, miss?” said Dally with her eyes twinkling; “oh, of course, miss! I’ll go and ask Miss Mary to let me go!”

“No, no – stop, you foolish girl!” said Leo, with a half laugh. “There, I’ll be plain with you. I don’t want my sister to know. You would take a letter for me to Mrs Berens, Dally?”

“Master said I was never to take any notes for anybody,” said Dally sharply.

“But you will make an exception, Dally! Take a note for me, and bring me an answer, and I will give you a sovereign.”

“To Mrs Berens, miss?”

Leo looked at her meaningly, and the girl returned the gaze.

“Very well, miss; I’ll take it,” she said. “Must I go right to the Hall?”

“Yes, Dally, this evening, and nobody must know. Insist upon seeing him yourself, and bring me back an answer by word of mouth, if he cannot write.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Trust me, miss? Why, of course!” cried Dally, for Leo was giving her the opportunity she had sought. For days past she had been trying to find some way of getting a word with Tom Candlish; but, so far, it had been impossible. Now the way had been put into her hands.

“Thankye, miss,” she said, dropping a curtsy, as she slipped a long letter and a sovereign into her pocket. “And if I don’t settle your affair there, madam,” she said to herself, “I don’t know Tom Candlish, and he don’t know quite what Dally Watlock can do when she’s served like this.”

“Then I may trust you, Dally?” whispered Leo.

“Trust me, miss?” said the girl, looking at her innocently; “why, of course you can.”

“To-night, then, after dark!”

“Yes, miss, after dark; and if I’m asked for, you’ll say you give me leave to go and see poor gran’fa, who isn’t well.”

“Yes, Dally, I will.”

“And she’s been to boarding school, and thinks herself clever,” said Dally, as soon as she was alone. “Go after dark, miss? Yes, I will. They say people’s soft when they’re sick and weak. Perhaps so. Tom may be so now. After dark!” she muttered with a little cough. “Yes, miss; you may trust me! I’ll go after dark!”

Volume Three – Chapter Two.
Mrs Berens is Wounded

“Is anything the matter, Mrs Berens?”

“Matter, my dear Mary?” said the lady, in a piteous voice. “Oh, yes; but how beautiful and soft and patient you look!”

She bent down and kissed the invalid, sighed, and wafted some scent about the room.

“I’m a great deal worried, dear, about money matters, and – and other things.”

“Money, Mrs Berens? I thought you were rich.”

“Not rich, dear, but well off. But money is a great trouble; for Mr Thompson, my agent in London, worries me a great deal, investing and putting it for me somewhere else. He says I am wasting my opportunities – that he could double my income; and when he comes down, really, my dear, his attentions are too marked for those of a solicitor.”

“Mr Thompson is a relative of Dr North, is he not?” said Mary gravely.

“Yes; he asked Dr North to introduce him, and the doctor did,” said Mrs Berens ruefully. “But it was not about the money; it was about Dr North himself I came to speak.”

“Indeed!” said Mary, with a faint tinge of colour showing.

“Yes, my dear; and I don’t want you to think me a busybody, but I could not help noticing that he seemed attached to Leo; and it is troubling me for Leo’s sake.”

“Will you speak plainly, Mrs Berens?”

“Yes, dear; but you frighten me – you are so severe. There! I will speak out! Leo is engaged to Dr North, is she not?”

“No,” said Mary, after a pause; “there is no engagement.”

“Ah, then that makes it not quite so bad.”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Oh, don’t be so severe, Mary. I was poorly yesterday – a little hysterical – the weather; and I sent for Dr North.”

“Yes.”

“He came, dear, and no medical man could have been nicer than he was at first; but all at once he seemed to change – to become as if he were two people!”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Yes, dear. I did not know what to make of him. He was like one possessed, my dear!”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Yes, dear; it’s quite true. One minute he was sympathetic and kind, and the next laughing at and bantering me in a strange tone.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, my dear. He told me it was all nonsense, and that I was as hearty as a brick. What an expression to use to a lady! And then he apologised, and spoke calmly, giving me excellent advice.”

Mary wiped the dew from her white forehead.

“And then, my dear,” continued Mrs Berens, “directly after he called me his pretty buxom widow. I felt as if I should sink through the floor with indignant shame.”

“Are you not mistaken, Mrs Berens?” said Mary, whose voice grew tremulous and almost inaudible.

“Mistaken, my dear? Oh, no; that is what he said; and then he seemed to feel ashamed of it, and I saw him colour up.”

“It seems impossible,” muttered Mary; and then she recalled her brother’s words, and a hand seemed to clutch her heart.

“Of course,” continued Mrs Berens, “I could not order him to leave the house; I could only look at him indignantly.”

“And he apologised?” said Mary eagerly.

“Apologised? No, my dear; he made matters worse by his low bantering – chaff, young men call it – till my face burned, and I felt so shocked that I was ready to burst into tears. For I always did like Dr North. Such a straightforward, gentlemanly man. You always felt such confidence in him.”

Mary looked at her wildly.

“Oh, no, my dear,” continued her visitor, taking her look as a question; “nothing of the kind. I should have smelt him directly. He kissed me. He had not been drinking. And it’s so horrible, for I could never call him in again.”

“Hush!” whispered Mary. “Pray don’t speak of it before my brother.”

“Before your brother! Oh, no, my dear. I should sink with shame. But why did you say that?”

“Because he might come in, and I must think about it all before I mention it to him.”

“But – but Mr Salis – ”

“My brother is not out.”

“Not out? I understood your maid to say he had gone to the church,” cried Mrs Berens, starting up in alarm.

She was too late, for directly after Salis entered, with the presentation surplice over his arm.

Some one turned red in the face. It may have been Mrs Berens, or it may have been Salis; and, in either case, the colour was reflected. Certainly both looked warm.

Salis was the first to recover his equanimity and greet the visitor.

“I did not know you had company, Mary,” he said. “I was going to ask you to alter the buttons at the neck of this. It is too tight.”

“Then you are going to wear it?” said Mary, with the first display of malicious fun that had shone in her eyes since her accident.

“Wear it? Well, yes; I suppose I must,” said Salis gruffly. “I can’t afford to buy myself a new one. Only a beggarly, hard-up curate, you see, Mrs Berens.”

“Oh, Mr Salis!” faltered the lady.

“And I really was ashamed of my surplice on Sunday. Mary here patched and darned all she could; but I looked a sad tatterdemalion. Didn’t you think so?”

“I? Oh, no, Mr Salis; I was thinking of your discourse.”

“But I didn’t wear it during the discourse,” said Salis slowly.

“Oh, of course. I should not have noticed it during the prayers,” said Mrs Berens, who was strung up now.

“That means that the prayers are better worth listening to than my sermons?” said Salis quickly.

“I did not say so,” retorted Mrs Berens, who momentarily grew more dignified and distant of manner, while Mary looked from one to the other, surprised into enjoyment of the novel scene.

“Ah, well, never mind,” said Salis half-bitterly. “Never mind the sermon, Mrs Berens.”

“Is not that rather bad advice for one’s pastor to give to a member of his flock, Mr Salis?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Salis, laughing. “I am beaten. Now it’s my turn, madam,” he added to himself. “What do you think of that, Mrs Berens?” and he held out and displayed the surplice, as a modiste would a dress.

“It looks very white, Mr Salis,” said the lady, fanning herself with a highly-scented handkerchief.

“Are you a judge of the quality of linen, Mrs Berens?”

“Well, not a judge; but I think I can tell that this is very fine.”

“Exactly,” said Salis; “very fine, ma’am. Do you know what this is?”

“What it is – ahem! I suppose it is a surplice.”

“Yes, ma’am, but it is something more,” said Salis sharply; “it is an insult!”

“An insult, Mr Salis?”

“Yes, ma’am, an insult; an anonymous insult! Somebody had said to himself or herself, ‘This poor curate has lost his surplice, and can’t afford another without going into debt; I’ll buy him one and send him – carriage paid.’”

“Mr Salis!”

“Yes, ma’am. That is the state of the case. All right, Mary, my dear; I know what I am saying. Perhaps Mrs Berens may know who sent it.”

“Mr Salis! I – ”

“Stop, stop, ma’am; pray don’t tell me. I would rather not know; it would be too painful to me. I only wish you, if you happen to know, to tell the anonymous donor what I feel about the matter. I was going to send the robe back to the maker: but, on second thoughts, I said to myself, I cannot afford a new one, so will swallow my pride, and wear it regularly, as a garb of penance, as a standing reproach – to the giver.”

There was quite a strong odour of patchouli in the room, for Mrs Berens was whisking her handkerchief about wildly.

“That’s all I wanted to say, ma’am. Mary, you’ll alter those buttons. I’ve tried it on, and my breast swelled so much with honest indignation, I suppose, that the fastenings nearly flew off. Good-bye, Mrs Berens. Oh! pray shake hands, ma’am. We are not going to be bad friends because I spoke out honestly and plainly.”

“Oh, no! Mr Salis,” faltered the lady, who had hard work to keep back her tears.

“I only want the donor to know how I feel about an anonymous gift, which stings a poor man who has any pride in him.”

“But clergymen should not have any pride,” said Mary, coming to Mrs Berens’ help.

“Quite right, my dear, but they have, and a great deal too sometimes.”

He nodded shortly to both in turn, and stalked out of the room.

Mrs Berens had risen. So had the tears, in spite of a very gallant fight. She made one more effort to keep them back, but her emotion was too strong; and, woman-like, seeking sympathy of woman, she sank upon her knees by Mary’s side, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Good-bye, Mary, dear,” she said at last. “I’m a weak, simple woman; but I can feel, and very deeply too.”

This, after a long weeping communion, during which Mary Salis understood the gentle-hearted widow better than she had ever grasped her character before.

There was a very tender embrace, and then, with her veil drawn down tightly, Mrs Berens left.

“Why not?” said Mary to herself as she lay back thinking. “She is very good and amiable, and she loves him very much. And if I die – poor Hartley will seem to be alone. – Why not?”

Then her mind reverted to her visitor’s words, and a cloud of trouble sat upon her brow.

“What can it mean?” she mused. “And I so helpless here!” she sighed at last; “compelled to hear everything from others, unable to do anything but lie here and think.”

Volume Three – Chapter Three.
Moredock Writes a Note

“He’s took to it – he’s took to it!” muttered Moredock, as he scratched one side of his nose with the waxy end of his pipe.

“Ah, it’s wonderful what a many doctors do take to it, and gallop theirselves off with it. Begins with a drop to keep ’em up sometimes, I s’pose, and then takes a little more and a little more.”

The old man sat smoking and musing over a visit he had just had from North.

“I don’t like it,” he said to himself. “He mayn’t be quite right some day when I call him in, and then it may be serious for me; I don’t like it at all.

“It’s no wonder when a man’s got all sorts o’ things as he can mix up into cordles, if he feels a bit down. That was prime stuff as he give me in the morslem. Hah! that was stuff. Then that other as went down into your fingers and toes, as it did right to the very nails. Why, I shouldn’t ha’ been surprised if he’d brought Squire Luke back to life with it.

“Hi, hi, hi!” he chuckled; “never mind about Squire Luke; but I should like him by-and-by – by-and-by, of course – to have a bottle on it mixed ready to give me, and bring me back. Phew! that’s a nasty subject to think about.”

He smoked rather hurriedly for some time, and there was a curious, haggard expression in his face; but it died out under the influence of his tobacco, and, after a time, he gave a low chuckle and shook all over.

“‘Old Buck!’ that’s what he said. ‘Old Buck,’ and give me a slap i’ the chest, as nearly knocked all the wind out o’ me. Not a bit like him to do. Not professional. As soon have expected Parson Salis to call me Old Cock. Ah, well! doctor’s only a man after all, and no book-larning won’t make him anything else; but I don’t like a doctor as takes to his drops.

“’Tarn’t brandy, or gin, or rum, or whisky, or I should have smelt him, and he spoke straight enough d’rectly after. He takes some stuff as he mixes up, and it makes him ready to burst out rollicking like at times; but he recollects hisself quickly ag’in, and seems sorry.

“Ay, but he looks bad, that he do. Looks like a man who can’t sleep – white and wanly. Well, as long as he tends me right, it don’t matter. He paid up handsome for all I did for him. Hi! hi! hi! It was a rum game. How’s young squire now, I wonder, and how’s matters going on there? Ha! now that’s curus. So sure as I begins thinking about my Dally, she comes. Hallo, my little princess, how do?”

“Oh, I am quite well, gran’fa,” said Dally, entering the cottage, looking rather flushed and heated. “I’m in a great hurry, but I thought I’d just run down and see how you were.”

“He come with you?” said the old man, pointing over the little maid’s shoulder.

She looked sharply round, caught sight of Joe Chegg, and ran back and slammed the door.

“An idiot!” she cried sharply. “He’s always following me about.”

“Going to let him marry you, Dally?”

“I should think not, indeed! What nonsense, gran’fa.”

“Well, what have you come for, eh? How’s squire?”

“Getting nearly well again.”

“Is he? How do you know? Were you going up to Hall night afore last?”

“N – ”

“Yes, you were, Dally,” said the old man, with a chuckle. “You needn’t tell a lie. I know. I often see you when you don’t know. You was going up to Hall.”

“Well, then, I was,” said Dally defiantly, “and I don’t care who knows.”

“’Cept Miss Leo, eh?”

The old man chuckled hugely, and rubbed his hands.

“I don’t mind Miss Leo knowing. She does know,” cried Dally. “Perhaps she sent me.”

“Did she, though – did she, though? Ay, but she’ll win him after all, Dally. She’s better and handsomer than you are, and she’s a leddy, Dally. You’ve got no chance against she.”

“Haven’t I, gran’fa? You’ll see. But not if I’m obliged to go up to the Hall looking shabby and mean. You said I should have a silk gown and a feather.”

“Did I? Did I? Oh, it was only my joking, Dally. You’re such a pretty gel, you don’t want silk dresses and feathers.”

“No, I don’t want ’em,” said Dally sharply; “but men do. They like to see us dressed up. Squire Tom thinks I look a deal nicer when I’ve got my best frock on.”

“Did he say so, Dally – did he say so?”

“Never you mind, gran’fa. Where’s the money you promised me?”

“Nay, I’ve thought better of it. You shall have it some day – when I’m dead and gone.”

“No, no, gran’fa, dear; I don’t want you to die,” whispered Dally, fondling him. “I want you to live a long time yet, and come and see me at the Hall.”

“Tchah! you’ll never get to be there. It’ll be Miss Leo.”

“Will it?” said Dally, with a toss of the head. “We shall see about that. You’ll give me some money, won’t you, gran’fa?”

“Nay. You’ve never made them new shirts yet.”

“I’ve been so busy, gran’fa dear,” cried the girl. “Why, I’ve been up to the Hall six times since I saw you last.”

“Up to Hall? Not alone?”

“Yes, and alone. Why not?” said Dally saucily. “Besides, Miss Leo sent me.”

“More than once?”

“Yes, gran’fa; often.”

“Ay, that’s it. I told you so. She’s a leddy, and she’ll win that game.”

“Will she?” said Dally drily; “when she can’t go up to see somebody, and sends me?”

The old man drew the corners of his mouth a long way apart in a hideous grin, and then burst into a series of chuckles.

“Why, Dally, my gel; you are a wicked one, and no mistake.”

“Oh, no, I’m not, gran’fa. I’m only fighting for myself; and you said you’d help me.”

“And so I will, my pet; but I can’t spare no money.”

“Well, I don’t know that I want it yet, gran’fa; but I want you to do something else.”

“Ay, ay. What is it?” said the old man eagerly. “Not buy anything?”

“No, not buy anything,” said Dally, diving her soft, round little arm down into her pocket, to reach which she had to raise one side of her dress. “I want you to write something, gran’fa.”

“Nay, I never write now. Write it yourself. What you want me to write for, after all the schooling you’ve had?”

“Well, I have written something, gran’fa, but I want you to do it, too.”

Dally had fished out a large, common-looking Prayer Book, which opened easily in two places, from each of which she took an envelope, and laid upon the table. One was directed, and on being opened she took out a note. The other was blank, and with a folded sheet of paper therein.

Dally was quite at home in the sexton’s cottage, and going to the mantelpiece she took down a corked penny ink-bottle, and a pen from out of a little common vase, while, from their special place, she took the old man’s spectacles.

“Now, gran’fa,” she said sharply, “I want you to write nicely, just what I’ve written there.”

“What for? what for?” he cried, taking up the note after adjusting his glasses.

“To help me, gran’fa. You said you would.”

“Yes, I said I would,” he grumbled. “I said I would.”

“And it won’t cost nothing, gran’fa; not even a stamp,” said the girl saucily.

“Hi – hi – hi! You’re a wicked one, Dally, that you are,” he chuckled, as he took the pen, and after a good many preliminaries, settled himself down to write.

“Do the envelope first, gran’fa,” whispered the girl excitedly.

“The envelope first, my pet. Ay, ay, ay.”

He bent over the table, and then, very slowly and laboriously, copied the address in a singularly good hand for one so old.

“That’s right,” cried Dally, who was in a fever of impatience, but dared not show it. “Now the letter, gran’fa.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll do it,” he said, chuckling as he mastered the contents. “Don’t you hurry, my pet. I don’t often use a pen now. But I used to at one time, and there wasn’t many as – ”

“Oh, do go on writing, gran’fa! Quick, quick! I want to get back.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll do it,” said the old man; and he devoted himself assiduously to his task to the end.

“There!” he said; “will that help you, Dally?”

“Yes, gran’fa, dear,” she cried. “But you won’t tell.”

“Tell?” he cried with a chuckle. “Nay, I never tell. I’m as close as the holes I dig, Dally. No one won’t know from me.”

As he chuckled and talked, the girl hastily tore up the first note, and refolded and enclosed the second. Moistening the envelope flap with her little red tongue, which looked quite pretty and flower-like, as it darted from her petally lips to the poisonous gum, with a sharp “good-bye!” she thrust the envelope into her book, and the book into her pocket, to hurry back to the Rectory, conscious that she was followed by Joe Chegg, and never once turning her head.

That night Salis sat by the shaded lamp, apparently reading, but a good deal troubled about North, respecting whom he had heard several disquieting rumours. Mary was busily working, and Leo finishing a letter to some relative in town.

“Add anything you like to that for Mary,” she said, rising. “I’m very tired, and shall go to bed.”

Salis frowned slightly, for it jarred upon him that every now and then his sister should go off to her room just before he rang for the servants to come in to prayers.

He said nothing, however; the customary good-nights were said, and the curate and Mary were left alone.

Half-an-hour later, Dally and the homely cook were summoned, the lesson and prayers road, and after the closing of a door or two the Rectory became very still.

“I’ll just look round, dear, and then carry you up; or shall I take you first?”

“No, Hartley, dear,” said Mary; “go first. Perhaps I may have something to say.”

“No fresh trouble, I hope,” thought Salis, who remained ignorant that his sister intended a few words of reproach concerning Mrs Berens, for as he stepped into the hall, and stooped to slip the bolt, something white, which seemed to have been slipped under the door, caught his eye.

“Circulars here in Duke’s Hampton!” he said, picking up an envelope, and seeing that it was addressed to him.

“Here, Mary,” he said, as he returned; “some one wants us to lay in a stock of coals, and – ”

He stopped short, and uttered quite a gasp.

“Hartley! Is anything wrong?”

He hesitated a moment, and then handed the letter to his sister.

It was very short – only a few lines:

“To Rev. H. Salis,

“I think you ought a know bout yure sister and her goins hon, ask her ware she is goin hout tow nite at 12 ’clock wen ure abed.

“A Nonnymus.”

Mary’s countenance looked drawn and old as she let the note fall in her lap.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t look like that, Mary,” cried Salis angrily. “I beg your pardon, dear. How absurd! An anonymous letter from some village busybody. It is not worth a second thought. There!”

He held the note to the candle, and retained it as long as he could before tossing the fragment left burning into the grate.

“That’s how the writer ought to be served,” he cried. “Now, bed.”

He carried Mary to her chamber, silencing her when she was about to speak; and then, after an affectionate “good night,” he sought his own room.

“It would be cowardly – cruel,” he said, “to take notice of such a letter as that. I can’t do it.”

He threw himself into a chair, and sat till his candle went out, thinking deeply about his sister and her unfortunate connection with Candlish.

“No,” he said, rising slowly; “I cannot act upon that note. It would be too paltry.”

He stopped short, for just then the church clock rang out clearly the first stroke of midnight.

It was the hour named in the letter, and the thought came to him with a flash.

“No,” he cried fiercely; “I cannot do that;” but in spite of his words the spirit within warned him that he occupied the position of parent to his sister, and, quickly throwing open his door, he walked across to Leo’s room and tapped sharply, and waited for a reply.