to see Alan Lynde, who was never sick except in the
one way.

Miss Enderby even said: "I was so glad to see Alan looking so well, last
night."

"Yes, he had such a good time," said Bessie, and she followed her friend
to the door, where she kissed her reassuringly, and thanked her for
taking all the trouble she had, bidding her not be the least anxious on
her account.

It seemed to her that she should sink upon the stairs in mounting
them to the library. Mary Enderby had told her only what she had known
before; it was what her brother had told her; but then it had not been
possible for the man to say that he had brought Alan home tipsy, and
been alone in the house with her at three o'clock in the morning. He
would not only boast of it to all that vulgar comradehood of his, but
it might get into those terrible papers which published the society
scandals. There would be no way but to appeal to his pity, his
generosity. She fancied herself writing to him, but he could show her
note, and she must send for him to come and see her, and try to put him
on his honor. Or, that would not do, either. She must make it happen
that they should be thrown together, and then speak to him. Even that
might make him think she was afraid of him; or he might take it wrong,
and believe that she cared for him. He had really been very good to
Alan, and she tried to feel safe in the thought of that. She did feel
safe for a moment; but if she had meant nothing but to make him believe
her grateful, what must he infer from her talking to him in the light
way she did about forgiving him for not coming back to dance with her.
Her manner, her looks, her tone, had given him the right to say that
she had been willing to flirt with him there, at that hour, and in those
dreadful circumstances.

She found herself lying in a deep arm-chair in the library, when she was
aware of Dr. Lacy pausing at the door and looking tentatively in upon
her.

"Come in, doctor," she said, and she knew that her face was wet with
tears, and that she spoke with the voice of weeping.

He came forward and looked narrowly at her, without sitting down.
"There's nothing to be alarmed about, Miss Bessie," he said. "But I
think your brother had better leave home again, for a while."

"Yes," she said, blankly. Her mind was not on his words.

"I will make the arrangements."

"Thank you," said Bessie, listlessly.

The doctor had made a step backward, as if he were going away,