ng through his
convalescence with a restless impatience that was very trying to all
who came in contact with him.

He was longing for more freedom and change of air. He should never
grow strong until he went away, he told Fay; and then she understood
that he meant to leave her. But the knowledge gave her no fresh pain.
She had suffered so much that even he could not hurt her more, she
thought. She only said to him once in her shy way, "You will be at
home in time, Hugh; you will not leave me to go through it all alone?"
And he had promised faithfully that he would come back in plenty of
time.

And the next morning she found him dressed earlier than usual and
standing by the window in the library, and exclaimed at the
improvement; and Hugh, moving still languidly, bade her see how well
he could walk. "I have been three times round the room and once down
the corridor," he said, with a smile at his own boasting. "Tomorrow I
shall go out in the garden, and the next day I shall have a drive."

And a week after that, as they were standing together on the terrace,
looking toward the lake and the water-lilies, Hugh, leaning on the
coping, with a brighter look than usual on his wan face, spoke
cheerfully about the arrangements for the next day's journey.

He was far from well, she told him, sadly, and she hoped Saville would
take great care of him; and he must still follow Dr. Martin's
prescriptions, and that was all she said that night.

But the next day, when the servants were putting the portmanteaus on
the carriage, and Hugh went into the blue room to bid her good-bye,
all Fay's courage forsook her, and she said, piteously, "Oh, Hugh, are
you really going to leave me? Oh, Hugh, Hugh!" And, as the sense of
her loneliness rushed over her, she clung to him in a perfect anguish
of weeping. Sir Hugh's brow grew dark; he hated scenes, and especially
such scenes as these. In his weakness he felt unable to cope with
them, or to understand them.

"Fay," he said, remonstrating with her, "this is very foolish," and
Fay knew by his voice how vexed he was; but she was past minding it
now. In her young way she was tasting the bitterness of death. "My
dear," he continued, as he unloosened her hand from their passionate
grasp, and held them firmly in his, "do you know what a silly child
you are?" and then be relented at his own words, she was such a child.
"I told you before that I should never be well until I went away, but
you evi