he idea of
Southern Europe. The result of his triple suggestion was that he stood
in his room on that spring morning in the last stages of preparation
for a journey to Italy.

He stood there, with the discomfort of packing pleasantly accomplished,
and his belongings neatly surrounding him; yet his attitude and
expression were those of a man who is faced by an unlooked-for
difficulty. With a nervous gesture, he shook out the letter that he
held, and began to read it hastily for the fourth time. It was a long
letter, written in a careless, almost boyish hand on thin paper, and
bore the address of "Orristown, Ireland." It was dated two days
earlier, and began:

"DEAR MR. MILBANKE,--

"You will be very much surprised to get this, but I write for
father, not for myself. He had a bad accident yesterday while out
riding, and is terribly hurt and ill. The doctor from Carrigmore is
with him all the time, and my aunt--as well as Nance and I; so he
is well cared for. But he seems to get worse instead of better, and
we are dreadfully frightened about him.

"There is one thing he constantly craves for--and that is to see
you. Ever since that night, three years ago, when you and he
quarrelled and you went away, I think he has been fretting about
you. Of course, he has never spoken of it, but I don't think he has
ever forgotten that he treated you badly.

"This morning he talked a great deal about the time when you and he
were young together; so much so, that I asked him if he would like
to see you. The moment I spoke his face lighted up, but then at
once it clouded over again, and he muttered something about never
giving any man the chance of refusing him a favour.

"Dear Mr. Milbanke asking you to come here, but I feel differently.
I would risk anything a hundred times over on the chance of bringing
you to him. And if you are in London, please do come, if only for
one night. Don't refuse, for he is very, very bad. Any time you send
me a telegram, the trap can meet you either at Muskeere or Dunhaven.

"This is a dreadful letter, but I have been up all night, and
scarcely know what I am writing.

"Answer as soon as possible,

"Yours,

"CLODAGH ASSHLIN."

Milbanke scanned the letter to the last line; then, as he reached the
signature, the inertia that had pervaded his mind was suddenly
dispersed. His own shock of s