proud woman; and even in the midst of her
regret for having done this foolish thing, she was always ready to make
excuses for the man she loved, always in danger of committing some new
folly in his behalf.

Gilbert Fenton felt for the poor foolish little woman, whose fair face
was turned to him with such a pleading look in the wintry twilight. He
knew that what he had to tell her must needs carry desolation to her
heart--knew that in the background of John Saltram's life there lurked
even a deeper cause of grief for this gentle impressionable little soul.

"You will not wonder that Mr. Saltram has not called upon you lately when
you know the truth," he said gravely: "he has been very ill."

Mrs. Branston clasped her hands, with a faint cry of terror.

"Very ill--that means dangerously ill?"

"Yes; for some time he was in great danger. I believe that is past now;
but I am not quite sure of his safety even yet. I can only hope that he
may recover."

Hope that he might recover, yes; but to be a friend of his, Gilbert's,
never more. It was a dreary prospect at best. John Saltram would recover,
to seek and reclaim his wife, and then those two must needs pass for ever
out of Gilbert Fenton's life. The story would be finished, and his own
part of it bald enough to be told on the fly-leaf at the end of the book.

Mrs. Branston bore the shock of his ill news better than Gilbert had
expected. There is good material even in the weakest of womankind when
the heart is womanly and true.

She was deeply shocked, intensely sorry; and she made no attempt to mask
her sorrow by any conventional speech or pretence whatsoever. She made
Gilbert give her all the details of John Saltram's illness, and when he
had told her all, asked him plainly if she might be permitted to see the
sick man.

"Do let me see him, if it is possible," she said; "it would be such a
comfort to me to see him."

"I do not say such a thing is not possible, my dear Mrs. Branston; but I
am sure it would be very foolish."

"O, never mind that; I am always doing foolish things. It would only be
one folly more, and would hardly count in my history. Dear Mr. Fenton, do
let me see him."

"I don't think you quite know what you are asking, Mrs. Branston. Such a
sick-bed as John Saltram's would be a most painful scene for you. He has
been delirious from the beginning of his illness, and is so still. He
rarely has an interval of anything like consciousness, and in a