ion from the first. Nothing would have rejoiced
me more than their marriage.'

'O, yes,' said Violet, 'he says so much of your kindness.' She feared
she had said too much, but Lord Martindale caught at her words. 'Has he
ever adverted to that affair!'

'Sometimes,' said Violet, shyly.

'What! Actually spoken of poor Helen! I am heartily glad to hear it. How
is he bearing it? Does he speak calmly?'

'Yes, calmly and cheerfully, as if he liked to dwell on the thought.'

Lord Martindale laid his hand on her arm, and said, gratefully, 'You
have done him a great deal of good.'

Seldom had she been more gratified, but at that moment a dripping figure
burst on them, and Theodora's voice impetuously exclaimed, 'Violet!
you must know something of babies! What shall I do for the child at the
lodge? She will die if something is not done quickly.'

She was in an agony of breathless agitation; the motherless baby at the
lodge had been taken violently ill, the parish doctor was not at home,
and she feared that Mr. Legh could not arrive from Whitford in time!

Violet shared in her distress, and gathering from her description that
it might be such an attack as Johnnie's at Ventnor, longed to be on
the spot, and tried to believe the rain lessening enough for her to go.
Theodora seized on her proposal, but Lord Martindale interfered. 'How
can you be so thoughtless?' said he, in a far more decided manner than
usual.

'The child's life depends on it!' said Theodora, vehemently.

'Pshaw!' said Lord Martindale, 'Violet has her own life and her child's
to think of.'

'Then you won't come!'

'I am afraid I ought not,' said Violet, mournfully.

Theodora flung away in passionate despair and contempt, and was rushing
off, when Violet pursued her, and implored her to listen one moment, and
she could not let go her last hope. Violet offered some medicine that
had been prepared for Johnnie--which she was sure could at least do no
harm, and she could give some advice. Perhaps she mingled it with too
many excuses and lamentations at being forced to stay at home; at least,
Theodora thought her fanciful, rejoicing in the self-importance of
imaginary ill-health.

'Why! there's the carriage!' she exclaimed, as it drove down the avenue.

'Yes, it is gone for John,' said Theodora, bluntly.

'Where is he?'

'At the Goldingsby turnpike. He took shelter there, and Percy came back
to order the carriage to fetch him. Percy is gone on to Whit