e took her hand
gently and drew it within his arm.

"All is going well?" he said, "and you have had a little rest, my dear?
Bice has told me----"

She withdrew a little the hand which lay on his arm. "He is much
better," she said; "more than one would have thought possible."

"Thank God!" Sir Tom cried; and they were silent for a moment, united
in thanksgiving, yet so divided, with a sickening gulf between them.
Lucy felt her heart begin to stir and ache that had been so quiet. "And
you," he said, "have had a little rest? Thank God for that too. Anything
that had happened to him would have been bad enough; but to you,
Lucy----"

"Oh, hush, hush," she cried, "that is over; let us not speak of anything
happening to him."

"But all is not over," he said. "Something has happened--to us. What did
you mean when you spoke to me of others? 'You have others.' I scarcely
noticed it at that dreadful moment; but now---- Who are those others,
Lucy? Whom have I but him and you?"

She did not say anything, but withdrew her hand altogether from his arm,
and looked at him. A look scarcely reproachful, wistful, sorrowful,
saying, but not in words, in its steady gaze--You know.

He answered as if it had been speech.

"But I don't know. What is it, Lucy? Bice too has something she asked me
to explain, and I cannot explain it. You said to her, 'Go to your
father.' What is this? You must tell what you mean."

"Bice?" she said, faltering; "it was at a moment when I did not think
what I was saying."

"No, when you spoke out that perilous stuff you have got in your heart.
Oh, my Lucy, what is it, and who has put it there?"

"Tom," she said, trembling very much. "It is not Bice; she--that--is
long ago--if her mother had been dead. But a man cannot have two lives.
There cannot be two in the same place. It is not jealousy. I am not
finding fault. It has been perhaps without intention; but it is not
befitting--oh, not befitting. It cannot--oh, it is impossible! it must
not be."

"What must not be? Of what in the name of heaven are you speaking?" he
cried.

Once more she fixed on him that look, more reproachful this time, full
of meaning and grieved surprise. She drew away a little from his side.
"I did not want to speak," she said. "I was so thankful; I want to say
nothing. You thought you had left that other life behind; perhaps you
forgot altogether. They say that people do. And now it is here at your
side, and on the other side