aid Lady Henry, and Julie obeyed.

They entered the hall in which one little light was burning. Lady Henry,
with great difficulty, and panting, began to pull herself up the stairs.

"Oh, _do_ let me help you!" said Julie, in an agony. "You will kill
yourself. Let me at least call Dixon."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Henry, indomitable, though
tortured by weakness and rheumatism. "Dixon is in my room, where I bade
her remain. You should have thought of the consequences of this before
you embarked upon it. If I were to die in mounting these stairs, I would
not let you help me."

"Oh!" cried Julie, as though she had been struck, and hid her eyes with
her hand.

Slowly, laboriously, Lady Henry dragged herself from step to step. As
she turned the corner of the staircase, and could therefore be no longer
seen from below, some one softly opened the door of the dining-room and
entered the hall.

Julie looked round her, startled. She saw Jacob Delafield, who put his
finger to his lip.

Moved by a sudden impulse, she bowed her head on the banister of the
stairs against which she was leaning and broke into stifled sobs.

Jacob Delafield came up to her and took her hand. She felt his own
tremble, and yet its grasp was firm and supporting.

"Courage!" he said, bending over her. "Try not to give way. You will
want all your fortitude."

"Listen!" She gasped, trying vainly to control herself, and they both
listened to the sounds above them in the dark house--the labored breath,
the slow, painful step.

"Oh, she wouldn't let me help her. She said she would rather die.
Perhaps I have killed her. And I could--I could--yes, I _could_ have
loved her."

She was in an anguish of feeling--of sharp and penetrating remorse.

Jacob Delafield held her hand close in his, and when at last the sounds
had died in the distance he lifted it to his lips.

"You know that I am your friend and servant," he said, in a queer,
muffled voice. "You promised I should be."

She tried to withdraw her hand, but only feebly. Neither physically nor
mentally had she the strength to repulse him. If he had taken her in his
arms, she could hardly have resisted. But he did not attempt to conquer
more than her hand. He stood beside her, letting her feel the whole
mute, impetuous offer of his manhood--thrown at her feet to do what she
would with.

Presently, when once more she moved away, he said to her, in a whisper:

"Go to the Duches