have_ to take a holiday. What could this mean? Was this poor young
man completely broken by the loss of his friend Mr Sharnall, or was he
conscious of the seeds of some fell disease that others knew nothing of?
He might _have to_ take a holiday. Ah, it was not a mere holiday of
which he spoke--he meant something more serious than that; his grave,
sad manner could only mean some long absence. Perhaps he was going to
leave Cullerne.

To lose him would be a very serious matter to Miss Joliffe from the
material point of view; he was her sheet-anchor, the last anchor that
kept Bellevue Lodge from drifting into bankruptcy. Mr Sharnall was
dead, and with him had died the tiny pittance which he contributed to
the upkeep of the place, and lodgers were few and far between in
Cullerne. Miss Joliffe might well have remembered these things, but she
did not. The only thought that crossed her mind was that if Mr Westray
went away she would lose yet another friend. She did not approach the
matter from the material point of view, she looked on him only as a
friend; she viewed him as no money-making machine, but only as that most
precious of all treasures--a last friend.

"I may have to leave you for awhile," he said again, with the same
portentous solemnity.

"I hope not, sir," she interrupted, as though by her very eagerness she
might avert threatened evil--"I hope not; we should miss you terribly,
Mr Westray, with dear Mr Sharnall gone too. I do not know what we
should do having no man in the house. It is so very lonely if you are
away even for a night. I am an old woman now, and it does not matter
much for me, but Anastasia is so nervous at night since the dreadful
accident."

Westray's face brightened a little at the mention of Anastasia's name.
Yes, his must certainly be a very deep affection, that the naming of her
very name should bring him such pleasure. It was on _his_ protection,
then, that she leant; she looked on _him_ as her defender. The muscles
of his not gigantic arms seemed to swell and leap to bursting in his
coat-sleeves. Those arms should screen his loved one from all evil.
Visions of Perseus, and Sir Galahad, and Cophetua, swept before his
eyes; he had almost cried to Miss Euphemia, "You need have no fear, I
love your niece. I shall bow down and raise her to my throne. They
that would touch her shall only do so over my dead body," when
hesitating common-sense plucked him by the sleeve; he must co