s bedside.

He found her waiting for him, and was struck by the calmness she
displayed. To tell the truth the violence of her emotions had been wholly
expended on the previous night and the reaction had brought an intense
melancholy quiet, which almost frightened Mr. Juxon. The habit of bearing
great anxiety had not been wholly forgotten, for the lesson had been well
learned during those terrible days of her husband's trial, and it was as
though his sudden return had revived in her the custom of silent
suffering. She hardly spoke, but listened quietly to Mr. Juxon's account
of what had happened.

"You are not hurt?" she asked, almost incredulously. Her eyes rested on
her friend's face with a wistful look.

"No, I assure you, not in the least," he said. "But your poor husband is
very ill--very ill indeed."

"Tell me," said she quietly, "is he dead? Are you trying to break it to
me?"

"No--no indeed. He is alive--he may even recover. But that is very
uncertain. It might be best to wait until the doctor has been again. I
will come back and fetch you--"

"Oh, no, I will go at once. I would like to walk. It will do me good."

So the two set out without further words upon their errand. Mr. Juxon had
purposely omitted to speak of Mr. Booley's arrival. It would be easy, he
thought, to prevent them from meeting in the great house.

"Do you know," said Mary Goddard, as they walked together, "it is very
hard to wish that he may recover--" she stopped short.

"Very hard," answered the squire. "His life must be one of misery, if he
lives."

"Of course you would send him back?" she asked nervously.

"My dear friend, there is no other course open to me. Your own safety
requires it."

"God knows--you would only be doing right," she said and was silent
again. She knew, though the squire did not, what fate awaited Walter
Goddard if he were given up to justice. She knew that he had taken life
and must pay the penalty. Yet she was very calm; her senses were all
dulled and yet her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. She
realised fully that the case of life and death was ill balanced; death
had it which ever course events might take, and she could not save her
husband. She thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might die now,
in his bed, with her by his side. It was a better fate.

"You say that the doctor thinks he must have been ill some time?" she
asked after a time.

"Yes--he was quite sure of it," an