him. He obeyed in silence. The
full view of his face shocked Mrs. Ellmother. Never in her experience of
the friend who had been so kind to her at Netherwoods, had he looked so
old and so haggard as he looked now. "Oh, Mr. Alban, I see how she
has distressed you! Don't take her at her word. Keep a good heart,
sir--young girls are never long together of the same mind."

Alban gave her his hand. "I mustn't speak about it," he said. "Silence
helps me to bear my misfortune as becomes a man. I have had some hard
blows in my time: they don't seem to have blunted my sense of feeling
as I thought they had. Thank God, she doesn't know how she has made me
suffer! I want to ask her pardon for having forgotten myself yesterday.
I spoke roughly to her, at one time. No: I won't intrude on her; I have
said I am sorry, in writing. Do you mind giving it to her? Good-by--and
thank you. I mustn't stay longer; Miss Ladd expects me at Netherwoods."

"Miss Ladd is in the house, sir, at this moment."

"Here, in London!"

"Upstairs, with Miss Emily."

"Upstairs? Is Emily ill?"

"She is getting better, sir. Would you like to see Miss Ladd?"

"I should indeed! I have something to say to her--and time is of
importance to me. May I wait in the garden?"

"Why not in the parlor, sir?"

"The parlor reminds me of happier days. In time, I may have courage
enough to look at the room again. Not now."

"If she doesn't make it up with that good man," Mrs. Ellmother thought,
on her way back to the house, "my nurse-child is what I have never
believed her to be yet--she's a fool."

In half an hour more, Miss Ladd joined Alban on the little plot of grass
behind the cottage. "I bring Emily's reply to your letter," she said.
"Read it, before you speak to me."

Alban read it: "Don't suppose you have offended me--and be assured that
I feel gratefully the tone in which your note is written. I try to write
forbearingly on my side; I wish I could write acceptably as well. It is
not to be done. I am as unable as ever to enter into your motives. You
are not my relation; you were under no obligation of secrecy: you heard
me speak ignorantly of the murder of my father, as if it had been the
murder of a stranger; and yet you kept me--deliberately, cruelly kept
me--deceived! The remembrance of it burns me like fire. I cannot--oh,
Alban, I cannot restore you to the place in my estimation which you have
lost! If you wish to help me to bear my trouble, I entreat