the account, and here is the
money to settle it. And I take this gentleman to witness, to whom, no
doubt, you have imparted what you call your wrongs" (the doctor smiled,
and shrugged his shoulders) "that now you are paid."

"A widow--a poor, lonely, insulted widow!" cries the Campaigner, with
trembling hands taking possession of the notes.

"And I wish to know," I continued, "when my friend's house will be free
to him, and he can return in peace."

Here Rosa's voice was heard from the inner apartment, screaming, "Mamma,
mamma!"

"I go to my child, sir," she said. "If Captain Mackenzie had been alive,
you would not have dared to insult me so." And carrying off her money,
she left us.

"Cannot she be got out of the house?" I said to the doctor. "My friend
will never return until she leaves it. It is my belief she is the cause
of her daughter's present illness."

"Not altogether, my dear sir. Mrs. Newcome was in a very, very delicate
state of health. Her mother is a lady of impetuous temper, who expresses
herself very strongly--too strongly, I own. In consequence of unpleasant
family discussions, which no physician can prevent, Mrs. Newcome has
been wrought up to a state of--of agitation. Her fever is, in fact, at
present very high. You know her condition. I am apprehensive of ulterior
consequences. I have recommended an excellent and experienced nurse
to her. Mr. Smith, the medical man at the corner, is a most able
practitioner. I shall myself call again in a few hours, and I trust
that, after the event which I apprehend, everything will go well.

"Cannot Mrs. Mackenzie leave the house, sir?" I asked.

"Her daughter cries out for her at every moment. Mrs. Mackenzie is
certainly not a judicious nurse, but in Mrs. Newcome's present state I
cannot take upon myself to separate them. Mr. Newcome may return, and
I do think and believe that his presence may tend to impose silence and
restore tranquillity."

I had to go back to Clive with these gloomy tidings. The poor fellow
must put up a bed in his studio, and there await the issue of his wife's
illness. I saw Thomas Newcome could not sleep under his son's roof that
night. That dear meeting, which both so desired, was delayed, who could
say for how long?

"The Colonel may come to us," I thought; "our old house is big enough."
I guessed who was the friend coming in my wife's company; and pleased
myself by thinking that two friends so dear should meet in our home.
B