that was more to the point. He wrote about the
weather chiefly. Arrived in London, Mrs. Denyer at once sent an
invitation, and to her annoyance this remained unanswered. To-day the
explanation was forthcoming; Mr. Musselwhite had been on a journey, and
by some mistake the letter had only come into his hands when he
returned. He was most gentlemanly in his expressions of condolement
with the family in their distress; he sat with them, moreover, much
longer than was permissible under the circumstances by the code of
society. And on going, he begged to be allowed to see them
frequently--that was all.

Barbara could not control herself for irritation; Mrs. Denyer was
indignant. Yet, after all, was it to be expected that the visitor
should say or do more on such an occasion as this? In any case, he knew
what their position was; all had been put before him, as though he were
a member of the family. If they succeeded in obtaining whatever Mr.
Denyer had died possessed of, it would certainly be nothing more than a
provision for the present. When they spoke of taking a lodger for their
first floor, Mr. Musselwhite agreed that this was a good thought,
whilst shaking his gentlemanly head over the necessity.

He came again and again, always sadly sympathetic. He would sit in the
drawing-room for an hour, pulling his whiskers and moustaches
nervously, often glancing at Barbara, making the kindest inquiries
concerning Madeline, for whom he actually brought flowers. On one of
these occasions, he told them that his brother the baronet was very
ill, down at the "place in Lincolnshire." And after mentioning this, he
fell into abstraction.

As for Madeline, she still received letters from Clifford Marsh. On
first hearing of the accident, Clifford at once came to Southampton;
his distress was extreme. But it was useless for him to remain, and
business demanded his return to Leeds. Neither he nor Madeline was yet
aware of the gravity of what had happened; they talked of recovery.
Before long Madeline knew how her situation was generally regarded, but
she could not abandon hope; she was able to write, and not a word in
her letters betrayed a doubt of the possibility that she might yet be
well again. Clifford wrote very frequently for the first year, with a
great deal of genuine tenderness, with compassion and encouragement.
Never mind how long her illness lasted, let her be assured of his
fidelity; no one but Madeline should ever be his w