he had got rid of Mr. Finch--straight to his cousin's
house.

"You forget," I said, "that Lucilla may come here while you are out. Your
presence in the room, or in the room next to this, may be of the greatest
importance, when I tell her what your brother has done. Suppose she
refuses to believe me? What am I to do if I have not got you to appeal
to? In your own interests, as well as in Lucilla's, I request you to
remain here with me till she comes."

Putting it on that ground only, I waited to see what he would do. After a
certain hesitation, he answered with a sullen assumption of indifference,
"Just as you please!"--and walked away again towards the other end of the
room. As he turned his back on me, I heard him say to himself, "It's only
waiting a little longer!"

"Waiting for what?" I asked.

He looked round at me over his shoulder.

"Patience for the present!" he answered. "You will hear soon enough." For
the moment, I said no more to him. The tone in which he had replied
warned me that it would be useless.

After an interval--how long an interval I cannot well say--I heard the
sound of women's dresses in the passage outside.

The instant after, there was a knock at the door.

I signed to Oscar to open a second door, close by him at the lower end of
the room, and (for the moment at least) to keep out of sight. Then I
answered the knock, and said as steadily as I could, "Come in."

A woman unknown to me entered, dressed like a respectable servant. She
came in leading Lucilla by the hand. My first look at my darling told me
the horrible truth. As I had seen her in the corridor at the rectory on
the first day we met, so I now saw her once more. Again, the sightless
eyes turned on me, insensibly reflecting the light that fell on them.
Blind! Oh, God, after a few brief weeks of sight, blind again!

In that miserable discovery, I forgot everything else. I flew to her, and
caught her in my arms. I cast one look at her pale, wasted face--and
burst out crying on her bosom.

She held my head gently with one hand, and waited with the patience of an
angel until that first outbreak of my grief had exhausted itself. "Don't
cry about my blindness," said the soft, sweet voice that I knew so well.
"The days when I had my sight have been the unhappiest days of my life.
If I look as if I had been fretting, don't think it is about my eyes."
She paused, and sighed bitterly. "I may tell _you,_" she went on in a
whisper. "I