ties. There was not even a struggle in his
heart between the opposite possibilities of letting Goddard die, by
merely relaxing his attention, and of redoubling his care and bringing
about his recovery. He never once asked himself, after the chances of the
patient surviving the fever were stated, whether he would not be
justified in sending for some honest housewife from the village to take
care of the tramp instead of looking to his wants himself. He simply did
his best to save the man's life, without hesitation, without suspecting
that he was doing anything extraordinary, doing, as he had always done,
the best thing that came in his way according to the best of his ability.
He could not wholly suppress the reflection that much good might ensue
from Goddard's death, but the thought never for a moment interfered with
his efforts to save the convict alive.

But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the sick man's perpetual
groaning and by the train of thought which ran through his brain. There
were indeed more strange things than his philosophy could account for,
but the strangest of all was that the squire should know who the tramp
was; he must know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, his
former love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent presence in the
neighbourhood. The young man's curiosity was roused to its highest pitch,
and he longed to know more. He at once guessed that there must have
been much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon and Mrs. Goddard; he
suspected moreover that there must be some strange story connected with
her, something which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a formerly
luxurious life which still clung to her, and which should explain her
residence in Billingsfield But John was very far from suspecting the real
truth.

His mind was restless and the inaction became intolerable to him. He rose
at last and went again into the room where his friend was watching. Mr.
Juxon sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one leg crossed
over the other and his hands folded together upon his knee, his face
paler than usual but perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one side
and his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the encounter in
the park, as smooth as ever. It was a very distinctive feature of him; it
was part of the sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so much
admired.

"It is my turn, now," said John. "Will you lie down for a couple of
hours?"

The squire