as you may be sure, of the good physician's
leave to visit him, and have news of his dear patient. His accounts of
her were, far from encouraging. "She does not rally," he said. "We must
get her back to Kent again, or to the sea." I did not know then that the
poor child had begged and prayed so piteously not to be moved, that
her parents, divining, perhaps, the reason of her desire to linger in
London, and feeling that it might be dangerous not to humour her, had
yielded to her entreaty, and consented to remain in town.

At last one morning I came, pretty much as usual, and took my place in
my doctor's front parlour, whence his patients were called in their turn
to his consulting-room. Here I remained, looking heedlessly over the
books on the table and taking no notice of any person in the room, which
speedily emptied itself of all, save me and one lady who sate with her
veil down. I used to stay till the last, for Osborn, the doctor's man,
knew my business, and that it was not my own illness I came for.

When the room was empty of all save me and the lady, she puts out two
little hands, cries in a voice which made me start "Don't you know me,
George?" And the next minute I have my arms round her, and kissed her
as heartily as ever I kissed in my life, and gave way to a passionate
outgush of emotion the most refreshing, for my parched soul had been in
rage and torture for six weeks past, and this was a glimpse of Heaven.

Who was it, children? You think it was your mother whom the doctor had
brought to me? No. It was Hetty.

CHAPTER LXXVI. Informs us how Mr. Warrington jumped into a Landau

The emotion at the first surprise and greeting over, the little maiden
began at once.

"So you are come at last to ask after Theo, and you feel sorry that your
neglect has made her so ill? For six weeks she has been unwell, and you
have never asked a word about her! Very kind of you, Mr. George, I'm
sure!"

"Kind!" gasps out Mr. Warrington.

"I suppose you call it kind to be with her every day and all day for a
year, and then to leave her without a word?"

"My dear, you know my promise to your father?" I reply.

"Promise!" says Miss Hetty, shrugging her shoulders. "A very fine
promise, indeed, to make my darling ill, and then suddenly, one fine
day, to say, 'Good-bye, Theo,' and walk away for ever. I suppose
gentlemen make these promises, because they wish to keep 'em. I wouldn't
trifle with a poor child's heart,