“A what? Some of Lady Susan’s little poperies, eh? I can’t scold you, child, now I’ve got you; only have your letters forwarded another time,” said Sir Harry, placable as usual when alone with Lenore.

Fears of infection for her did not occur to him. Mr. M’Vie held the non-contagion theory, and helpless selfishness excluded all thoughts of keeping his daughter at a distance. He clung to her as he used to do in former days, before Camilla had taken possession of him, and could not bear to have her out of reach. In the sick-room she was of disappointingly little use. The nurse was a regular professional, used to despotism, and resenting her having brought home any one with her, and she never permitted Miss Vivian’s presence, except when the patient’s anxiety made it necessary to bring her in; and when admitted, there was nothing to be done but to sit by Camilla, and now and then answer the weary disjointed talk, and, if it grew a little livelier, the warning that Lady Tyrrell was getting excited was sure to follow.

Outside there was enough to do, in the disorganized state of the sick and panic-stricken household, where nobody was effective but the French valet and one very stupid kitchen-maid. Lena helped the St. Faith’s nurse in her charge of the French maid, but almost all her time in the morning was spent in domestic cares for the sick and for her father; and when he was once up, he was half plaintive, half passionate, if she did not at once respond to his calls. She read the papers to him, walked up and down the terrace with him while he smoked, and played bezique with him late into the night, to distract his thoughts. And where were hers, while each day’s bulletin from Compton Hall was worse than the last? Little Joe Reynolds had been sent home on being taken ill, and she would fain have gone to see him, but detentions sprang up around her, and sometimes it would have been impossible to go so far from the house, so that days had become weeks, and the month of October was old before she was walking down the little garden of old Betty’s house. The door opened, and Julius Charnock came out, startling her by the sight of his worn and haggard looks, as he made a deprecating movement, and shut the door behind him. Then she saw that the blinds were in the act of being drawn down.

“Is it so?” she said.

“Yes,” said Julius, in a quiet tone, as sad and subdued as his looks. “He slept himself away peacefully a quarter of an hour ago.”

“I suppose I must not go in now. I longed to come before. Poor boy, he was like a toy flung away.”

“You need not grieve over him,” said Julius. “Far from it. You have done a great deal for him.”

“I—I only caused him to be put into temptation.”

“Nay. Your care woke his spirit up and guarded him. No one could hear his wanderings without feeling that he owed much to you. There is a drawing to be given to you that will speak much to you. It is at the Rectory; it was not safe here. And his mother is here. I can’t but hope her soul has been reached through him. Yes,” as Lenore leant against the gate, her warm tears dropping, “there is no grief in thinking of him. He had yearnings and conceptions that could not have been gratified in his former station; and for him an artist’s life would have been more than commonly uphill work—full of trial. I wish you could have heard the murmured words that showed what glorious images floated before him—no doubt now realized.”

“I am glad he was really good,” were the only words that would come.

The hearts of both were so full, that these words on what was a little further off were almost necessary to them.

“Take my arm,” said Julius, kindly. “Our roads lie together down the lane. How is your sister? Better, I hope, as I see you here.”

“She has slept more quietly. Mr. M’Vie thinks her a little better.”

“So it is with Terry de Lancey,” said Julius; “he is certainly less feverish to-day;” but there was no corresponding tone of gladness in the voice, though he added, “Cecil is going on well too.”

“And—” Poor Lenore’s heart died within her; she could only press his arm convulsively, and he had mercy on her.

“Frank’s illness has been different in character from the others,” he said; “the fever has run much higher, and has affected the brain more, and the throat is in a very distressing state; but Dr. Worth still does not think there are specially dangerous symptoms, and is less anxious about him than Raymond.”

“Ah! is it true?”

“He does not seem as ill as Frank; but there have been bleedings at the nose, which have brought him very low, and which have hitherto been the worst symptoms,” and here the steady sadness of his voice quivered a little.

Lenore uttered a cry of dismay, and murmured, “Your mother?”

“She is absorbed in him. Happily, she can be with him constantly. They seem to rest in each other’s presence, and not to look forward.”

“And Cecil?”

“It has taken the lethargic turn with Cecil. She is almost always asleep, and is now, I believe, much better; but in truth we have none of us been allowed to come near her. Her maid, Grindstone, has taken the sole charge, and shuts us all out, for fear, I believe, of our telling her how ill Raymond is.”

“Oh, I know Grindstone.”

“Who looks on us all as enemies. However, Raymond has desired us to write to her father, and he will judge when he comes.”

They were almost at the place of parting. Eleonora kept her hand on his arm, longing for another word, nay, feeling that without it her heart would burst. “Who is with Frank?”

“Anne. She hardly ever leaves him. She is our main-stay at the Hall.”

“Is he ever sensible?” she faintly asked.

“He has not been really rational for nearly ten days now.”

“If—if—oh! you know what I mean. Oh! gain his pardon for me!” and she covered her face with her hand.

“Poor Frank!—it is of your pardon that he talks. Tell me, Eleonora, did you ever receive a letter from my mother?”

“Never. Where was it sent?” she said, starting.

“To Revelrig. It was written the day after the ball.”

“I never went to Revelrig. Oh! if I could have spoken to you first I should have been saved from so much that was wrong. No one knew where I was.”

“No, not till Sister Margaret told Herbert Bowater that her sisters had been at a ball at the town-hall the week before. Then he saw she was Miss Strangeways, and asked if she knew where you were.”

“Ah, yes! disobedience—tacit deception—temper. Oh! they have brought their just punishment. But that letter!”

“I think it was to explain poor Frank’s conduct at the races. Perhaps, as the servants at Revelrig had no knowledge of you, it may have been returned, and my mother’s letter have been left untouched. I will see.”

They knew they must not delay one another, and parted; Julius walking homewards by the Hall, where, alas! there was only one of the family able to move about the house, and she seldom left her patient.

Julius did, however, find her coming down-stairs with Dr. Worth, and little as he gathered that was reassuring in the physician’s words, there was a wistful moisture about her eyes, a look altogether of having a bird in her bosom, which made him say, as the doctor hurried off, “Anne, some one must be better.”

“Cecil is,” she said; and he had nearly answered, “only Cecil,” but her eyes brimmed over suddenly, and she said, “I am so thankful!”

“Miles!” he exclaimed.

She handed him a telegram. The Salamanca was at Spithead; Miles telegraphed to her to join him.

“Miles come! Thank God! Does mother know?”

“Hush! no one does,” and with a heaving breast she added, “I answered that I could not, and why, and that he must not come.”

“No, I suppose he must not till he is free of his ship. My poor Anne!”

“Oh no! I know he is safe. I am glad! But the knowledge would tear your mother to pieces.”

“Her soul is in Raymond now, and to be certain of Miles being at hand would be an unspeakable relief to him. Come and tell them.”

“No, no, I can’t!” she cried, with a sudden gush of emotion sweeping over her features, subdued instantly, but showing what it was to her. “You do it. Only don’t let them bring him here.”

And Anne flew to her fastness in Frank’s attic, while Julius repaired to Raymond’s room, and found him as usual lying tranquil, with his mother’s chair so near that she could hand him the cool fruit or drink, or ring to summon other help. Their time together seemed to both a rest, and Julius always liked to look at their peaceful faces, after the numerous painful scenes he had to encounter. Raymond, too, was clinging to him, to his ministrations and his talk, as to nothing else save his mother. Raymond had always been upright and conscientious, but his religion had been chiefly duty and obligation, and it was only now that comfort or peace seemed to be growing out of it for him. As he looked up at his brother, he too saw the involuntary brightness that the tidings had produced, and said, “Is any one else better, Julius? I know Terry is; I am so glad for Rose.”

“I asked Anne the same question,” said Julius. “Mother, you will be more glad than tantalized. The Salamanca is come in.”

Raymond made an inarticulate sound of infinite relief. His mother exclaimed, “He must not come here! But Frankie could not spare Anne to him. What will she do?”

“She will stay bravely by Frank,” said Julius. “We must all wait till the ship is paid off.”

“Of course,” said Raymond. “If she can rejoice that he is out of danger, we will; I am content to know him near. It makes all much easier. And, mother, he will find all ready to own what a priceless treasure he sent before him in his wife.”

There was the old note of pain in the comparison. Julius’s heart was wrung as he thought of Sirenwood, with the sense that the victim was dying, the author of the evil recovering. He could only stifle the thought by turning away, and going to the table in his mother’s adjacent room, where letters had accumulated unopened. ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ bore the post-mark which justified him in opening it, and enclosing the letter it contained to Miss Vivian.

He did so almost mechanically. He had gone through these weeks only by never daring to have a self. The only man of his family who could be effective; the only priest in the two infected parishes; he had steadfastly braced himself for the work. He ventured only to act and pray, never to talk, save for the consolation of others. To Wil’sbro’ he daily gave two morning hours, for he never failed to be wanted either for the last rites, or for some case beyond Herbert’s experience, as well as to see the Vicar, who was sinking fast, in a devout and resigned frame, which impressed while it perplexed his brother clergyman, in view of the glaring deficiencies so plain to others, but which never seemed to trouble his conscience.

The nursing-staff still consisted of the Sisters, Herbert Bowater, Mrs. Duncombe and her man-servant. Under their care, the virulence of the disease was somewhat abating, and the doctors ventured to say that after the next few days there would be much fewer fatal cases; but Water Lane was now a strangely silent place,—windows open, blinds flapping in the wind, no children playing about, and the ‘Three Pigeons’ remained the only public-house not shut up. It was like having the red cross on the door.

CHAPTER XXIX
A Strange Night

Cold, cold with death, came up the tide
In no manner of haste,
Up to her knees, and up to her side,
And up to her wicked waist;
For the hand of the dead, and the heart of the dead,
Are strong hasps they to hold.

—G. MACDONALD

“Rector,” said Herbert Bowater, “are you specially at home?”

“Why?” asked Julius, pausing.

“There’s that man Gadley.”

“Gadley! Is he down?”

“It seems that he has been ill this fortnight, but in the low, smouldering form; and he and that hostler of his kept it a secret, for fear of loss of gain, and hatred of doctors, parsons, Sisters, and authorities generally, until yesterday, when the hostler made off with all the money and the silver spoons. This morning early, a policeman, seeing the door open, went in, and found the poor wretch in a most frightful state, but quite sensible. I was passing as he came out to look for help, and I have been there mostly ever since. He is dying—M’Vie says there’s not a doubt of that, and he has got something on his mind. He says he has been living on Moy’s hush-money all this time, for not bringing to light some embezzlement of your mother’s money, and letting the blame light on that poor cousin of yours, Douglas.”

Herbert was amazed at the lighting up of his Rector’s worn, anxious face.

“Douglas! Thank Heaven! Herbert, we must get a magistrate at once to take the deposition!”

“What! Do you want to prosecute Moy?”

“No, but to clear Archie.”

“I thought he was drowned?”

“No; that was all a mistake. Miles saw him at Natal. Herbert, this will be life and joy to your sister. What!—you did not know about Jenny and Archie?”

“Not I—Jenny!—poor old Joan! So that’s what has stood in her way, and made her the jolliest of old sisters, is it? Poor old Joanie! What! was she engaged to him?”

“Yes, much against your father’s liking, though he had consented. I remember he forbade it to be spoken of,—and you were at school.”

“And Joan was away nursing old Aunt Joan for two years. So Archie went off with this charge on him, and was thought to be lost! Whew! How did she stand it? I say, does she know he is alive?”

“No, he forbade Miles to speak. No one knows but Miles and I, and our wives. Anne put us on the scent. Now, Herbert, I’ll go to the poor man at once, and you had better find a magistrate.”

“Whom can I find?” said Herbert. “There’s my father away, and Raymond ill, and Lipscombe waved me off—wouldn’t so much as speak to me for fear I should be infectious.”

“You must get a town magistrate.”

“Briggs is frantic since he lost his son, and Truelove thinks he has the fever, though Worth says it is all nonsense. There’s nobody but Whitlock. Dear old Jenny! Well, there always was something different from other people in her, and I never guessed what it was. I’d go to the end of the world to make her happy and get that patient look out of her eyes.”

Herbert had nearly to fulfil this offer, for Mr. Whitlock was gone to London for the day, and magistrates were indeed scarce; but at last, after walking two miles out of the town, his vehemence and determination actually dragged in the unfortunate, timid justice of the peace who had avoided him in the road, but who could not refuse when told in strong earnest that the justification of an innocent man depended on his doing his duty.

Poor Mr. Lipscombe! The neglected ‘Three Pigeons’ was just now the worst place in all Water Lane. The little that had hastily been done since the morning seemed to have had no effect on the foetid atmosphere, even to Herbert’s well accustomed nostrils; and what must it have been to a stranger, in spite of the open window and all the disinfectants? And, alas! the man had sunk into a sleep. Julius, who still stood by him, had heard all he had to say to relieve his mind, all quite rationally, and had been trying to show him the need of making reparation by repeating all to a magistrate, when the drowsiness had fallen on him; and though the sound of feet roused him, it was to wander into the habitual defiance of authority, merging into terror.

Herbert soothed him better than any one else could do, and he fell asleep again; but Mr. Lipscombe declared it was of no use to remain—nothing but madness; and they could not gainsay him. He left the two clergymen together, feeling himself to have done a very valiant and useless thing in the interests of justice, or at the importunity of a foolishly zealous young curate.

“Look here,” said Herbert, “Whitlock may be trusted. Leave a note for him explaining. I’ll stay here; I’m the best to do so, any way. If he revives and is sensible, I’ll send off at once for Whitlock, or if there is no time, I’ll write it down and let him see me sign it.”

“And some one else, if possible,” said Julius. “The difficulty is that I never had authority given me to use what he said to me in private. Rather the contrary, for old instinctive habits of caution awoke the instant I told him it was his duty to make it known, and that Archie was alive. I don’t like leaving you here, Herbert, but Raymond was very weak this morning; besides, there’s poor Joe’s funeral.”

“Oh, never mind. He’ll have his sleep out, and be all right when he awakes. Think of righting Jenny’s young man! How jolly!”

Julius went across to the town-hall hospital, and told the Sisters, whose darling his curate was, of the charge he had undertaken, and they promised to look after him. After which Julius made the best of his way home, where Rosamond had, as usual, a bright face for him. Her warm heart and tender tact had shown her that obtrusive attempts to take care of him would only be harassing, so she only took care to secure him food and rest in his own house whenever it was possible, and that however low her own hopes might be, she would not add to his burden; and now Terry was so much better that she could well receive him cheerily, and talk of what Terry had that day eaten, so joyously, as almost to conceal that no one was better at the Hall.

“I will come with you,” she said; “I might do something for poor Fanny,” as the bell began to toll for little Joshua’s funeral. Fanny Reynolds, hearing some rumour of her boy’s illness, had brought Drake to her home three days before his death. The poor little fellow’s utterances, both conscious and unconscious, had strangely impressed the man, and what had they not awakened in the mother? And when the words, so solemn and mysterious, fell on those unaccustomed ears in the churchyard, and Fanny, in her wild overpowering grief, threw herself about in an agony of sorrow and remorse, and sobbed with low screams, it was ‘the lady’ whom she viewed as an angel of mercy, who held her and hushed her; and when all was over, and she was sinking down, faint and hysterical, it was ‘the lady’ who—a little to the scandal of the more respectable—helped Drake to carry her to the Rectory, the man obeying like one dazed.

“I must leave the sheep that was lost to you, Rose,” said Julius. “You can do more for them than I as yet, and they have sent for me to the Hall.”

“You will stay there to-night if they want you; I don’t want any one,” said Rosamond at the door.

He was wanted indeed at his home. Frank was in a wilder and more raving state than ever, and Raymond so faint and sinking, and with such a look about him, that Julius felt, more than he had ever done before, that though the fever had almost passed away, there was no spirit or strength to rally. He was very passive, and seemed to have no power to wonder, though he was evidently pleased when Julius told him both of Archie Douglas’s life and the hopes of clearing his name. “Tell Jenny she was right,” he said, and did not seem inclined to pursue the subject.

They wheeled Mrs. Poynsett away at her usual hour, when he was dozing; and as Frank was still tossing and moaning incoherently, and often required to be held, Julius persuaded Anne to let him take her place with him, while she became Raymond’s watcher. He dozed about half an hour, and when she next gave him some food, he said, in a very low feeble tone:

“You have heard from Miles?”

“Yes; he says nothing shall stop him the moment they are paid off.”

“That’s right. No fear of infection—that’s clear,” said Raymond.

“I think not—under God!” and Anne’s two hands unseen clasped over her throbbing, yearning heart.

“Dear old fellow!” said Raymond. “It is such pleasure to leave mother to him. If I don’t see him, Anne, tell him how glad I am. I’ve no charge. I know he will do it all right. And mother will have you,” and he held out his hand to her. Presently he said: “Anne. One thing—”

“Yes,” she said anxiously.

“You always act on principle, I know; but don’t hang back from Miles’s friends and pleasures. I know the old fellow, Anne. His nature is sociable, and he wants sympathy in it.”

“I know what you mean, Raymond,” said Anne; “I do mean to try to do right—”

“I know, I know,” said he, getting a little excited, and speaking eagerly; “but don’t let right blind you, Anne, if you censure and keep from all he likes—if you will be a recluse and not a woman—he—don’t be offended, Anne; but if you leave him to himself, then will every effort be made to turn him from you. You don’t believe me.”

“My dear Raymond, don’t speak so eagerly,” as his cheeks flushed.

“I must! I can’t see his happiness and yours wrecked like mine. Go with him, Anne. Don’t leave him to be poisoned. Mesmerism has its power over whoever has been under the spell. And he has—he has! She will try to turn him against you and mother.”

“Hush, Raymond! Indeed I will be on my guard. There’s no one there. What are you looking at?”

“Camilla!” he said, with eyes evidently seeing something. “Camilla! Is it not enough to have destroyed one peace?”

“Raymond, indeed there is no one here.”

But he had half raised himself. “Yes, Camilla, you have had your revenge. Let it be enough. No—no; I forgive you; but I forbid you to touch her.”

He grasped Anne’s arm with one hand, and stretched the other out as though to warn some one away. The same moment there was another outburst of the bleeding. Anne rang for help with one hand, and held him as best she could. It lasted long; and when it was over he was manifestly dying. “It is coming,” he said; looking up to Julius. “Pray! Only first—my love to Cecil. I hope she is still young enough not to have had all her life spoilt. Is her father coming?”

“To-morrow,” said Anne.

“That’s well. Poor child! she is better free.”

How piteously sad those words of one wedded but a year! How unlike the look that met his mother’s woeful yet tender eyes, as she held his hand. She would aid him through that last passage as through all before, only a word of strong and tender love, as he again looked up to Julius and Anne, as if to put her in their keeping, and once more murmured something of “Love to sweet Rose! Now, Julius, pray!”

An ever dutiful man, there was no wandering in look or tone. He breathed ‘Amen’ once or twice, but never moved again, only his eyes still turned on his mother, and so in its time came the end.

Old Susan saw at first that the long fluttering gasp had no successor, and her touch certified Julius. He rose and went towards his mother. She held out her hands and said. “Take me to my Frank.”

“We had better,” whispered Anne.

They wheeled her to the foot of the stairs. Julius took her in his arms, Anne held her feet, and thus they carried her up the stairs, and along the passage, hearing Frank’s husky rapid babble all the way, and finding him struggling with the fierce strength of delirium against Jenkins, who looked as if he thought them equally senseless, when he saw his helpless mistress carried in.

“Frank, my boy, do lie still,” she said, and he took no notice; but when she laid her hand on his, he turned, looked at her with his dull eyes, and muttered, “Mother!”

It was the first recognition for many a day! and, at the smoothing motion of her hand over him, while she still entreated, “Lie still, my dear,” the mutterings died away; the childish instinct of obedience stilled the struggles; and there was something more like repose than had been seen all these weary months.

“Mother,” said Julius, “you can do for us what no one else can. You will save him.”

She looked up to him, and hope took away the blank misery he had dreaded to see. “My poor Frankie,” she said dreamily, “he has wanted me, I will not leave him now.”

All was soon still; Frank’s face had something like rest on it, as he lay with his mother’s hand on his brow, and she intent only on him.

“You can leave them to me, I think,” said Anne. “I will send if there be need; but if not, you had better not come up till you have been to Wil’sbro’—if you must go.”

“I must, I fear; I promised to come to Fuller if he be still here. I will speak to Jenkins first.”

Julius was living like a soldier in a campaign, with numbers dropping beside him, and no time to mourn, scarcely to realize the loss, and he went on, almost as if he had been a stranger; while the grief of poor old Jenkins was uncontrollable, both for his lady’s sake and for the young master, who had been his pride and glory. His sobs brought out Mrs. Grindstone into the gallery, to insist, with some asperity, that there should be no noise to awaken her mistress, who was in a sweet sleep.

“We will take care,” said Julius, sadly. “I suppose she had better hear nothing till Mr. Charnock comes.”

“She must be left to me, sir, or I cannot be answerable for the consequences,” was the stiff reply, wherewith Mrs. Grindstone retreated into her castle.

Julius left the hushed and veiled house, in the frosty chill of the late autumn just before dawn, shivering between grief and cold, and he walked quickly down the avenue, feeling it strange that the windows in the face of his own house were glittering back the reflection of the setting moon.

Something long and black came from the opposite direction. “Rector,” it said, in a low hoarse voice, “I’ve got leave from him to use what he said to you. Sister Margaret and I signed it. Will that do?”

“I can’t tell now, Herbert, I can’t think. My brother is just gone,” said Julius in his inward voice.

“Raymond! No! Oh, I beg your pardon; I never thought of that; Raymond—”

“Go home and go to bed,” said Julius, as the young man wrung his hand. “Rest now—we must think another time.”

Did Rosamond know? was perhaps the foremost of his weary thoughts. Ah! did she not! Was she not standing with her crimson shawl round her, and the long black plaits falling on it, to beckon him to the firelit comfort of his own room? Did she not fall on his neck as he came heavily up, and cling around him with her warm arms? “Oh, Julius, what a dear brother he was! What can we do for your mother?”

As he told her how Frank’s need did more than any support could do for her, her tears came thicker; but in spite of them, her fond hands put him into the easy-chair by the fire, and drew off his damp boots; and while listening to the low sunken voice that told her of the end, she made ready the cup of cocoa that was waiting, and put the spoon in his hand in a caressing manner, that made her care, comfort, not oppression. Fatigue seconded her, for he took the warm food, faltered and leant back, dozing till the baby’s voice awoke him, and as he saw Rosamond hushing her, he exclaimed:

“O, Rose! if poor Raymond had ever known one hour like this!” and he held out his arms for his child.

“You know I don’t let you hold her in that coat. Go into your dressing-room, have your bath, and put on your dressing-gown, and if you will lie on the bed, you shall take care of her while I go and feed Terry. You can’t do anything for anybody yet, it is only six o’clock.”

These precautions, hindering his going jaded and exhausted into infection, were what Rosamond seemed to live for, though she never forced them on him, and he was far too physically tired out not to yield to the soothing effect; so that even two hours on the bed sent him forth renovated to that brief service in the church, where Herbert and he daily met and found their strength for the day. They had not had time to exchange a word after it before there was a knock at the vestry door, and a servant gave the message to Herbert, who had opened it: “Lady Tyrrell is taken worse, sir, and Sir Harry Vivian begged that Mr. Charnock would come immediately.”

A carriage had been sent for him, and he could only hurry home to tell Rosamond to send on the pony to Sirenwood, to take him to Wil’sbro’, unless he were first wanted at home. She undertook to go up to the Hall and give Anne a little rest, and he threw himself into the carriage, not daring to dwell on the pain it gave him to go from his brother’s death bed to confront Camilla.

At the door Eleonora came to meet him. “Thank you,” she said. “We knew it was no time to disturb you.”

“I can be better spared now,” answered Julius.

“You don’t mean,” she said, with a strange look, which was not quite surprise.

“Yes, my dear brother left us at about three o’clock last night. A change came on at twelve.”

“Twelve!” Eleonora laid her hand on his arm, and spoke in a quick agitated manner. “Camilla was much better till last night, when at twelve I heard such a scream that I ran into her room. She was sitting up with her eyes fixed open, like a clairvoyante, and her voice seemed pleading—pleading with him, as if for pardon, and she held out her hands and called him. Then, suddenly, she gave a terrible shriek, and fell back in a kind of fit. Mr. M’Vie can do nothing, and though she is conscious now, she does nothing but ask for you and say that he does not want you now.”

Julius grew paler, as he said very low, “Anne said he seemed to be seeing and answering her. Not like delirium, but as if she were really there.”

“Don’t tell any one,” entreated Eleonora, in a breathless whisper, and he signed consent, as both felt how those two spirits must have been entwined, since these long years had never broken that subtle link of sympathy which had once bound them.

Sir Harry’s face, dreary, sunken, and terrified, was thrust over the balusters, as he called, “Don’t hinder him, Lena, she asks for him every moment;” and as they came on, he caught Julius’s hand, saying, “Soothe her, soothe her—’tis the only chance. If she could but sleep!”

There lay Camilla Tyrrell, beautiful still, but more than ever like the weird tragic head with snake-wreathed brows, in the wasted contour of her regular features and the flush on her hollow cheeks, while her eyes burned with a strange fire that almost choked back Julius’s salutation of peace, even while he breathed it, for might not the Son of Peace be with some there?