than bind our girl for life, our
own flesh and blood, to such a man as that? Surely you can feel for me,
and forgive me, now. How could I own the truth to you, before I left
London, knowing you as I do? How could I expect you to be patient, to go
into hiding, to pass under a false name--to do all the degrading things
that must be done, if we are to keep Emma out of this man's way? No! I
know no more than you do where Farnaby is to be found. Hush! there is
the door-bell. It's the doctor's time for his visit. I tell you again I
don't know--on my sacred word of honour, I don't know where Farnaby is.
Oh, be quiet! be quiet! there's the doctor going upstairs! don't let the
doctor hear you!"

So far, she had succeeded in composing her husband. But the fury which
she had innocently roused in him, in her eagerness to justify herself,
now broke beyond all control. "You lie!" he cried furiously. "If you
know everything else about it, you know where Farnaby is. I'll be the
death of him, if I swing for it on the gallows! Where is he? Where is
he?"

A shriek from the upper room silenced him before Mrs. Ronald could
speak again. His daughter had heard him; his daughter had recognized his
voice.

A cry of terror from her mother echoed the cry from above; the sound of
the opening and closing of the door followed instantly. Then there was
a momentary silence. Then Mrs. Ronald's voice was heard from the upper
room calling to the nurse, asleep in the front parlour. The nurse's
gruff tones were just audible, answering from the parlour door. There
was another interval of silence; broken by another voice--a stranger's
voice--speaking at the open window, close by.

"Follow me upstairs, sir, directly," the voice said in peremptory tones.
"As your daughter's medical attendant, I tell you in the plainest terms
that you have seriously frightened her. In her critical condition, I
decline to answer for her life, unless you make the attempt at least to
undo the mischief you have done. Whether you mean it or not, soothe her
with kind words; say you have forgiven her. No! I have nothing to do
with your domestic troubles; I have only my patient to think of. I don't
care what she asks of you, you must give way to her now. If she falls
into convulsions, she will die--and her death will be at your door."

So, with feebler and feebler interruptions from Mr. Ronald, the doctor
spoke. It ended plainly in his being obeyed. The departing footsteps of
the