ack to
him, or death took her away. Hearing of what had been done, Mr. Gallilee
removed to Ovid's rooms the writing-desk and the books, the favourite
music and the faded flowers, left by Carmina at Fairfield Gardens.
"Anything that belongs to her," he thought, "will surely be welcome to
the poor fellow when he comes back."

On one afternoon--never afterwards to be forgotten--he had only begun
to make his daily inquiry, when the door on the ground floor was opened,
and Miss Minerva beckoned to him.

Her face daunted Mr. Gallilee: he asked in a whisper, if Ovid had
returned.

She pointed upwards, and answered, "He is with her now."

"How did he bear it?"

"We don't know; we were afraid to follow him into the room."

She turned towards the window as she spoke. Teresa was sitting
there--vacantly looking out. Mr. Gallilee spoke to her kindly: she made
no answer; she never even moved. "Worn out!" Miss Minerva whispered to
him. "When she thinks of Carmina now, she thinks without hope."

He shuddered. The expression of his own fear was in those words--and
he shrank from it. Miss Minerva took his hand, and led him to a chair.
"Ovid will know best," she reminded him; "let us wait for what Ovid will
say."

"Did you meet him on board the vessel?" Mr. Gallilee asked.

"Yes."

"How did he look?"

"So well and so strong that you would hardly have known him again--till
he asked about Carmina. Then he turned pale. I knew that I must tell him
the truth--but I was afraid to take it entirely on myself. Something Mr.
Null said to me, before I left London, suggested that I might help Ovid
to understand me if I took the prescriptions to Queenstown. I had not
noticed that they were signed by Doctor Benjulia, as well as by Mr.
Null. Don't ask me what effect the discovery had on him! I bore it at
the time--I can't speak of it now."

"You good creature! you dear good creature! Forgive me if I have
distressed you; I didn't meant it."

"You have not distressed me. Is there anything else I can tell you?"

Mr. Gallilee hesitated. "There is one thing more," he said. "It isn't
about Carmina this time--"

He hesitated again. Miss Minerva understood. "Yes," she answered; "I
spoke to Ovid of his mother. In mercy to himself and to me, he would
hear no details. 'I know enough,' he said, 'if I know that she is the
person to blame. I was prepared to hear it. My mother's silence could
only be accounted for in one way, when I had read Zo's l