a change was gradually going on; and
one afternoon, to his great surprise, Mrs. Gaunt's maid came to ask
Griffith if he would come to Mrs. Gaunt's apartment.

He found her seated in her bay-window, among her flowers. She seemed
another woman all of a sudden, and smiled on him her exquisite smile of
days gone by.

"Come, sit beside me," said she, "in this beautiful window that you have
given me."

"Sit beside you, Kate?" said Griffith. "Nay, let me kneel at your knees:
that is my place."

"As you will," said she, softly; and continued, in the same tone: "Now
listen to me. You and I are two fools. We have been very happy together
in days gone by; and we should both of us like to try again; but we
neither of us know how to begin. You are afraid to tell me you love me,
and I am ashamed to own to you or anybody else that I love you, in spite
of it all;--I do, though."

"You love me! a wretch like me, Kate? 'T is impossible. I cannot be so
happy."

"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common sense.
'T is a passion; like your jealousy, poor fool. I love you, as a mother
loves her child, all the more for all you have made me suffer. I might
not say as much, if I thought we should be long together. But something
tells me I shall die this time: I never felt so before. Bury me at
Hernshaw. After all, I spent more happy years there than most wives ever
know. I see you are very sorry for what you have done. How could I die
and leave thee in doubt of my forgiveness, and my love? Kiss me, poor
jealous fool; for I do forgive thee, and love thee with all my sorrowful
heart." And even with the words she bowed herself and sank quietly into
his arms, and he kissed her and cried bitterly over her: bitterly. But
she was comparatively calm. For she said to herself, "The end is at
hand."

* * * * *

Griffith, instead of pooh-poohing his wife's forebodings, set himself to
baffle them.

He used his wealth freely, and, besides the county doctor, had two very
eminent practitioners from London, one of whom was a gray-headed man,
the other singularly young for the fame he had obtained. But then he was
a genuine enthusiast in his art.

CHAPTER XLV.

Griffith, white as a ghost, and unable to shake off the forebodings
Catharine had communicated to him, walked incessantly up and down the
room; and, at his earnest request, one or other of the four doctors in
attendance was constantly