you as a
woman of courage--Dr. Blundell told me just now that--the odds are
against him."

She uttered a little cry.

The doctor's voice at the end of the hall made them both start.

"Lady Mary," he said, "you will forgive my interruption. Sir Timothy
desired me to join you. He feared this double blow might prove too
much for your strength."

"I am quite strong," said Lady Mary.

"He wished me to deliver a message," said the doctor.

"Yes."

"On reflection, Sir Timothy believes that he may be partly influenced
by a selfish desire for the consolation of your presence in wishing
you to remain with him to-morrow. He was struck, I believe, with
something Mr. Crewys said--on this point."

"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary.

"Hush!" said John, shaking his head.

Dr. Blundell's voice sounded, John thought, as though he were putting
force upon himself to speak calmly and steadily. His eyes were bent on
the floor, and he never once looked at Lady Mary.

"Sir Timothy desires, consequently," he said, "that you will consider
yourself free to follow your own wishes in the matter; being guided,
as far as possible, by the advice of Mr. Crewys. He is afraid of
further agitation, and therefore asks you to convey to him, as quickly
as possible, your final decision. As his physician, may I beg you not
to keep him waiting?"

He left them, and returned to the study.

Though it was only a short silence that followed his departure, John
had time to learn by heart the aspect of the half-lighted, shadowy
hall.

There are some pauses which are illustrated to the day of a man's
death, by a vivid impression on his memory of the surroundings.

The heavy, painted beams crossing and re-crossing the lofty roof; the
black staircase lighted with wax candles, that made a brilliancy which
threw into deeper relief the darkness of every recess and corner; the
full-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and women of his own
race--inartistic daubs, that were yet horribly lifelike in the
semi-illumination; the uncurtained mullioned windows,--all formed a
background for the central figure in his thoughts; the slender womanly
form in the armchair; the little brown head supported on the white
hand; the delicate face, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet so
lovely still.

"John," said Lady Mary, in a voice from which all passion and strength
had died away, "tell me what I ought to do."

"Remain with your husband."

"And let my