sister Lettice.

She had written to him since his interview with her at Bute Lodge. She
had told him of Alan's departure, and--to some extent--of its cause: she
had given him the address of the lodgings to which she was now going
(for a continued residence at Bute Lodge was beyond her means), and she
sent him her sisterly love--and that was all. She had not condescended
to any justification of her own conduct, nor had she alluded to the
accusations that he had made, nor to his own discomfiture. But there had
been enough quiet warmth in the letter to make him conscious that he
might count on her forgiveness and affection if he desired it. And he
did desire it. In the long hours of those sleepless nights and weary
days in which he had waited for better news of Nan, it was astonishing
to find how clearly the years of his boyhood had come back to him--those
quiet, peaceful years in which he had known nothing of the darker sides
of life, when the serene atmosphere of the rectory and the village had
been dear to his heart, and Lettice had been his cherished companion and
trusty comrade in work or play. It was like going back into another
world--a purer and a truer world than the one in which he lived now.

And in these hours of retrospect, he came to clearer and truer
conclusions respecting Lettice's character and course of action than he
had been able to do before he was himself smitten by the hand of Fate.
Lettice was interpreted to him by Nan. There _were_ women in the world,
it seemed, who had consciences, and pure hearts, and generous emotions:
it was not for him to deny it now. And he had been very hard on Lettice
in days gone by. He turned to her now with a stirring of affection which
he had not known for years.

But when he entered Lettice's room, and she came to meet him, gravely,
and with a certain inquiry in her look, he suddenly felt that he had no
reason to give for his appearance there.

"Sydney!" she had exclaimed in surprise. Then, after the first long
glance, and with a quick change of tone: "Sydney, are you ill?"

For he was haggard and worn, as she had never seen him, with dark lines
under his eyes, and an air of prostration and fatigue.

"No, I'm very well. It's Nan--my wife," he said, avoiding her alarmed
gaze.

"I am sorry--very sorry. Is she----"

"She has been on the brink of death. There is some hope now. I don't
know why I came here unless it was to tell you so," said Sydney, with an
odd abr