she must and would. The distasteful
labour, slow, wearisome, often performed without pretence of hope, went
on until October. Then she broke down. Mary Woodruff found her crying by
the fireside, feverish and unnerved.

'I can't sleep,' she said. 'I hear the clock strike every hour, night
after night.'

But she would not confess the cause. In writing her poor novel she
had lived again through the story enacted at Teignmouth, and her heart
failed beneath its burden of hopeless longing. Her husband had forsaken
her. Even if she saw him again, what solace could be found in the mere
proximity of a man who did not love her, who had never loved her? The
child was not enough; its fatherless estate enhanced the misery of her
own solitude. When the leaves fell, and the sky darkened, and the long
London winter gloomed before her, she sank with a moan of despair.

Mary's strength and tenderness were now invaluable. By sheer force of
will she overcame the malady in its physical effects, and did wonders in
the assailing of its moral source. Her appeal now, as formerly, was to
the nobler pride always struggling for control in Nancy's character.
A few days of combat with the besieging melancholy that threatened
disaster, and Nancy could meet her friend's look with a smile. She put
away and turned the key upon her futile scribbling; no more of that.
Novel-writing was not her vocation; she must seek again.

Early in the afternoon she made ready to go forth on the only business
which now took her from home. It was nearly a week since she had seen
her boy.

Opening the front door, she came unexpectedly under two pairs of eyes.
Face to face with her stood Samuel Barmby, his hand raised to signal at
the knocker, just withdrawn from him. And behind Barmby was a postman,
holding a letter, which in another moment would have dropped into the
box.

Samuel performed the civil salute.

'Ha!--How do you do, Miss. Lord?--You are going out, I'm afraid.'

'Yes, I am going out.'

She replied mechanically, and in speaking took the letter held out to
her. A glance at it sent all her blood rushing upon the heart.

'I want to see you particularly,' said Samuel. 'Could I call again, this
afternoon?'

Nancy gazed at him, but did not hear. He saw the sudden pallor of her
cheeks, and thought he understood it. As she stood like a statue, he
spoke again.

'It is very particular business. If you could give me an appointment--'

'Business?--Oh, com