ed to her, from
his tall erectness, and speaking with an extreme quietness, even
monotony of manner.

"He is waiting for you--will you come at once?"

He led her up the central staircase and along the familiar passages,
walking silently a little in front of her. They passed the long line of
Caroline and Jacobean portraits in the upper gallery, till just outside
his own door Aldous paused.

"He ought not to talk long," he said, hesitating, "but you will know--of
course--better than any of us."

"I will watch him," she said, almost inaudibly, and he gently opened the
door and let her pass, shutting it behind her.

The nurse, who was sitting beside her patient, got up as Marcella
entered, and pointed her to a low chair on his further side. Susie
Hallin rose too, and kissed the new-comer hurriedly, absently, without
a word, lest she should sob. Then she and the nurse disappeared through
an inner door. The evening light was still freely admitted; and there
were some candles. By the help of both she could only see him
indistinctly. But in her own mind, as she sat down, she determined that
he had not even days to live.

Yet as she bent over him she saw a playful gleam on the cavernous face.

"You won't scold me?" said the changed voice--"you did warn me--you and
Susie--but--I was obstinate. It was best so!"

She pressed her lips to his hand and was answered by a faint pressure
from the cold fingers.

"If I could have been there!" she murmured.

"No--I am thankful you were not. And I must not think of it--or of any
trouble. Aldous is very bitter--but he will take comfort by and by--he
will see it--and them--more justly. They meant me no unkindness. They
were full of an idea, as I was. When I came back to myself--first--all
was despair. I was in a blank horror of myself and life. Now it has
gone--I don't know how. It is not of my own will--some hand has lifted a
weight. I seem to float--without pain."

He closed his eyes, gathering strength again in the interval, by a
strong effort of will--calling up in the dimming brain what he had to
say. She meanwhile, spoke to him in a low voice, mainly to prevent his
talking, telling him of her father, of her mother's strain of
nursing--of herself--she hardly knew what. Hew grotesque to be giving
him these little bits of news about strangers--to him, this hovering,
consecrated soul, on the brink of the great secret!

In the intervals, while he was still silent, she could not