opposite the library, where Mr Barrett had left
her while he went to prepare the Squire for her coming.

The waiting seemed like hours instead of minutes, and yet when the door
opened and Mr Barrett beckoned her to follow him she drew back.

'Oh! I cannot--cannot come.'

Then the good doctor took her trembling, cold little hand in his, and
said,--

'Come, my dear, there is nothing to fear. Take courage, you will not
regret your visit I am sure.'

Then the door of the same room where Bryda had first seen the Squire
opened and closed behind, and she found herself alone with Mr Bayfield.

But _could_ it be he? There was scarcely a trace of the handsome,
stalwart young man of thirty left in that pale, emaciated form lying on
a couch before her.

'I cannot rise to greet you, madam,' were Mr Bayfield's first words.
'Come nearer, please; I have something to say to you, and my voice is
weak.'

Then a long thin hand was outstretched to Bryda, and her fears seemed to
vanish. She went up to the couch and said in low tones,--

'I am grieved, sir, to see you so--ill, and--'

The large wistful eyes fastened on Bryda's face had now nothing
offensive in their gaze. There was the far-off look in them of one who
had done with the world and all the world's sin and sorrow.

'Miss Palmer,' he said, 'I wished to see you to seek forgiveness. You
told me on that day long ago I had no mercy; it was true. I had no
mercy, and I deceived you cruelly.'

Then from a small pocket-book, worn with age and fastened with a ragged
strap, Mr Bayfield took out a paper--two papers.

One, that which he had shown to the old farmer on the night of his first
visit; the other dated only a few months before the old Squire's sudden
death. He put both into Bryda's hands and said,--

'Read them, and then grant me your pardon if you can.'

Bryda unfolded the papers with trembling fingers, and on the last
read:--

'I hereby wish to leave on record, should anything happen to
me, that Peter Palmer of Bishop's Farm is not to be pressed
for the discharge of his debt to me. The heir of my body, my
only son, is a wanderer on the face of the earth. He left me
shortly after his sainted mother's death, fifteen years ago,
and I have given up all hope of his return; but should he
return, I hereby instruct him that I discharge the said Peter
Palmer from his liability to me. He is an old man, and a man
of many troub