ped up, still shaking a little,
and went to her wardrobe.

'I must go downstairs,' she said, a little feverishly. 'I have never
thanked Mr. Tudor for saving my life. Help me to be quick, Ursie dear,
for I feel so queer and tottery.' And nothing I could say would prevail
on her to remain quietly in her room. While I was arguing with her, she
had dragged out her ruby velveteen and was trying to fasten it with her
trembling fingers.

'Oh, you are obstinate, Jill: you ought to be good on this night of all
nights.' But she made no answer to this, and, seeing her bent on her own
way, I brought her a brooch, and would have smoothed her hair, but she
pushed me away.

'It does not matter how I look. I am only going down for a few minutes.
He is going away, and I want to say good-night to him, and thank him.'
And Jill walked downstairs rather unsteadily.

Mr. Tudor was just crossing the hall. When he saw Jill, he hurried up to
her at once.

'Miss Jocelyn, this is very imprudent. You ought to have gone to bed: you
are not fit to be up after such a shock,' looking at her pale face and
swollen eyes with evident emotion.

Jill looked at him gently and seriously, and held out her hands to him
quite simply.

'I could not go to bed without thanking you, I am not quite so selfish
and thoughtless. You have saved my life: do you think I shall ever forget
that?'

Poor Lawrence! the excitement, the terror, and the relief were too much
for him; and there was Jill holding his hands and looking up in his face,
with her great eyes full of tears. It was not very wonderful that for a
moment he forgot himself.

'I could not help doing it,' he returned. 'What would have become of me
if you had died? I could not have borne it.'

Jill drew her hands away, and her face looked a little paler in the
moonlight. The young man's excited voice, his strange words, must have
told her the truth. No, she was not too young to understand; her head
drooped, and she turned away as she answered him,--

'I shall always be grateful. Good-night, Mr. Tudor: I must go to my
mother. Come, Ursula.'

She did not look back as we walked across the hall, though poor Lawrence
stood quite still watching us. Why had the foolish boy said that? Why had
he forgotten his position and her youth? Why had he hinted that her life
was necessary to his happiness? Would Jill ever forget those words, or
the look that accompanied them? I felt almost angry with Lawrence as
I fo