ecause you will
not forsake him. My dear, he loves you like his own soul!"

Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan's aunt, and bade
her try to sleep.

It was growing dark. Through the window she could trace the outlines of
the garden below. She was tempted by the balmy night, and went out.

"He loves you like his own soul!" Was not that how she loved him, and
was she not here in England to tell him so?

The question startled her, as though some one else had put it to her,
and was waiting for an answer. That, surely, was not her object; and
yet, if not, what was? From the hour when she read Sydney's letter at
Florence she seemed to have had a new motive power within her. She had
acted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling; she could scarcely
recall a single argument which she had held with herself during the past
ten days. She might have been walking in a dream, so little did she seem
to have used her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since she
left Italy.

On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hartley.

On Saturday she went out by herself, and managed to see the governor of
the gaol where Alan was lodged. From him she learned, to her dismay,
that "Number 79" had had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was still
very weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with the
careful attention which he was receiving in the infirmary he would
probably be able to leave on the 29th of October.

Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to have no relatives
"except the wife, who was not likely to give herself much trouble about
him, and an aunt in the country who was paralyzed." So, Lettice arranged
to bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 29th, and
to fetch him away.

Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe's address, thanks to the letter which
had been written to the governor by Mrs. Chigwin, she came to Birchmead
on Monday--lingering an hour or two at Angleford in order that she might
see her native place again, and recall the image of the father whom she
had loved and lost.

Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented and at rest. Now
she could think, and reason with herself if need be. What did she mean
to do? What had she done already? How had she committed herself? She was
only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which there was no
retracing. Had she not virtually broken with Mrs. Hartley, with the
Daltons, with Sydney and