a rare thing for him to do;
nay, more, he went and smoked his peaceful pipe in the garden. John lay
on an extempore sofa, made of three of our high-backed chairs and the
window-sill. I read to him--trying to keep his attention, and mine
too, solely to the Great Plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, just
as I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked whiter and
more sunken, that his smile was fading, and his thoughts were
wandering--Jael burst in.

"John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee."

No, John--no need for that start--that rush of impetuous blood to thy
poor thin cheek, as if there were but one woman in all the world. No,
it was only Mrs. Jessop.

At sight of him, standing up, tall, and gaunt, and pale, the good
lady's eyes brimmed over.

"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive me--but I am an old
woman, you know. Lie down again."

With gentle force she compelled him, and sat down by his side.

"I had no idea--why did you not let us know--the doctor and me? How
long have you been ill?"

"I am quite well now--I am indeed. I shall be about again tomorrow,
shall I not, Phineas?" and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation.

I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it--glad she
should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing
in the mire because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad that she
might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax
was not worthy.

"But you must be very careful--very careful of yourself, indeed."

"He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to take care of him.
Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear."

I spoke--perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that good
old lady--but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and
forgive me.

"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. And I think Mr. Halifax hardly
knows how much we--we all--esteem him." And with a kind motherly
gesture she took John's hand. "You must make haste and get well now.
My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula--" here she
carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket--"my dear child
sends you this."

It was a little note--unsealed. The superscription was simply his
name, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing--"John Halifax."

His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I--she is--very kind." The
words died away--the hand which grasped, ay, for more than a m