Had she erred in her concealment? He thought she had, though with much excuse. A Retreat was not like a sacrament, a necessity of a Christian's life; and no merely possible spiritual advantage ought to be weighed against filial obedience. It was a moment of contrition, and of outpouring for the burthened heart, as Lenore was able to speak of her long trial, and all the evil it had caused in hardening and sealing up her better nature. She even told of her unsanctioned but unforbidden engagement, and of its termination; yearning to be told that she had been hasty and hard, and to be bidden to revoke her rejection.

She found that Dr. Easterby would not judge for her, or give her decided direction. He showed her, indeed, that she had given way to pride and temper, and had been unjust in allowing no explanation; but he would not tell her to unsay her decision, nor say that it might not be right, even though the manner had been wrong. While the past was repented, and had its pardon, for the future he would only bid her wait, and pray for guidance and aid through her trial.

"My child," he said, "chastening is the very token of pardon, and therein may you find peace, and see the right course."

"And you will pray for me--that however it may be, He may forgive me?"

"Indeed, I will. We all will pray for you as one in sorrow and anxiety. And remember this: There is a promise that a great mountain shall become a plain; and so it does, but to those who bravely try to climb it in strength not their own, not to those who try to go round or burrow through."

"I see," was all she answered, in the meek submissive tone of a strong nature, bent but not daring to break down. She could not shed tears, deeply as she felt; she must save all her strength and bear that gnawing misery which Herbert Bowater's mention of J. C.'s brothers had inflicted upon her--bear it in utter uncertainty through the night's journey, until the train stopped at Wil'sbro' at eleven o'clock, and her father, to whom she had telegraphed, met her, holding out his arms, and absolutely crying over her for joy.

"My dear, my dear, I knew you would come; I could trust to my little Lena. It was all some confounded mistake."

"It was my fault. How is she?"

"Does nothing but ask for you. Very low--nasty fever at night.

What's that woman? M'Vie sent a nurse, who is awfully jealous; can't have her in to Camilla: but there's plenty to do; Anais is laid up--coachman too, and Joe--half the other servants gone off. I told Victor I would pay anything to him if he would stay."

"And--at Compton?" faintly asked Lenore.

"Bad enough, they say. Serves 'em right; Mrs. Raymond was as mischievous as Duncombe's wife, but I've not heard for the last two days; there's been no one to send over, and I've had enough to think about of my own."

"Who have it there?" she managed to say.

"Raymond and his wife, both; and Frank and the young De Lancey, I heard. I met Julius Charnock the other day very anxious about them.

He's got his tithe barn stuffed with children from Water Lane, as if he wanted to spread it. All their meddling! But what kept you so long, little one? Where were you hiding?--or did Lady Susan keep it from you? I began to think you had eloped with her son. You are sure you have not?"

"I was wrong, father; I went to a Retreat with Lady Susan."

"A what? Some of Lady Susan's little poperies, eh? I can't scold you, child, now I've got you; only have your letters forwarded another time," said Sir Harry, placable as usual when alone with Lenore.

Fears of infection for her did not occur to him. Mr. M'Vie held the non-contagion theory, and helpless selfishness excluded all thoughts of keeping his daughter at a distance. He clung to her as he used to do in former days, before Camilla had taken possession of him, and could not bear to have her out of reach. In the sick-room she was of disappointingly little use. The nurse was a regular professional, used to despotism, and resenting her having brought home any one with her, and she never permitted Miss Vivian's presence, except when the patient's anxiety made it necessary to bring her in; and when admitted, there was nothing to be done but to sit by Camilla, and now and then answer the weary disjointed talk, and, if it grew a little livelier, the warning that Lady Tyrrell was getting excited was sure to follow.

Outside there was enough to do, in the disorganized state of the sick and panic-stricken household, where nobody was effective but the French valet and one very stupid kitchen-maid. Lena helped the St. Faith's nurse in her charge of the French maid, but almost all her time in the morning was spent in domestic cares for the sick and for her father; and when he was once up, he was half plaintive, half passionate, if she did not at once respond to his calls. She read the papers to him, walked up and down the terrace with him while he smoked, and played bezique with him late into the night, to distract his thoughts. And where were hers, while each day's bulletin from Compton Hall was worse than the last? Little Joe Reynolds had been sent home on being taken ill, and she would fain have gone to see him, but detentions sprang up around her, and sometimes it would have been impossible to go so far from the house, so that days had become weeks, and the month of October was old before she was walking down the little garden of old Betty's house. The door opened, and Julius Charnock came out, startling her by the sight of his worn and haggard looks, as he made a deprecating movement, and shut the door behind him. Then she saw that the blinds were in the act of being drawn down.

"Is it so?" she said.

"Yes," said Julius, in a quiet tone, as sad and subdued as his looks. "He slept himself away peacefully a quarter of an hour ago."

"I suppose I must not go in now. I longed to come before. Poor boy, he was like a toy flung away."

"You need not grieve over him," said Julius. "Far from it. You have done a great deal for him."

"I--I only caused him to be put into temptation."

"Nay. Your care woke his spirit up and guarded him. No one could hear his wanderings without feeling that he owed much to you. There is a drawing to be given to you that will speak much to you. It is at the Rectory; it was not safe here. And his mother is here. I can't but hope her soul has been reached through him. Yes," as Lenore leant against the gate, her warm tears dropping, "there is no grief in thinking of him. He had yearnings and conceptions that could not have been gratified in his former station; and for him an artist's life would have been more than commonly uphill work--full of trial. I wish you could have heard the murmured words that showed what glorious images floated before him--no doubt now realized."

"I am glad he was really good," were the only words that would come.

The hearts of both were so full, that these words on what was a little further off were almost necessary to them.

"Take my arm," said Julius, kindly. "Our roads lie together down the lane. How is your sister? Better, I hope, as I see you here."

"She has slept more quietly. Mr. M'Vie thinks her a little better."

"So it is with Terry de Lancey," said Julius; "he is certainly less feverish to-day;" but there was no corresponding tone of gladness in the voice, though he added, "Cecil is going on well too."

"And--" Poor Lenore's heart died within her; she could only press his arm convulsively, and he had mercy on her.

"Frank's illness has been different in character from the others,"

he said; "the fever has run much higher, and has affected the brain more, and the throat is in a very distressing state; but Dr. Worth still does not think there are specially dangerous symptoms, and is less anxious about him than Raymond."

"Ah! is it true?"

"He does not seem as ill as Frank; but there have been bleedings at the nose, which have brought him very low, and which have hitherto been the worst symptoms," and here the steady sadness of his voice quivered a little.

Lenore uttered a cry of dismay, and murmured, "Your mother?"

"She is absorbed in him. Happily, she can be with him constantly.

They seem to rest in each other's presence, and not to look forward."

"And Cecil?"

"It has taken the lethargic turn with Cecil. She is almost always asleep, and is now, I believe, much better; but in truth we have none of us been allowed to come near her. Her maid, Grindstone, has taken the sole charge, and shuts us all out, for fear, I believe, of our telling her how ill Raymond is."

"Oh, I know Grindstone."

"Who looks on us all as enemies. However, Raymond has desired us to write to her father, and he will judge when he comes."

They were almost at the place of parting. Eleonora kept her hand on his arm, longing for another word, nay, feeling that without it her heart would burst. "Who is with Frank?"

"Anne. She hardly ever leaves him. She is our main-stay at the Hall."

"Is he ever sensible?" she faintly asked.

"He has not been really rational for nearly ten days now."

"If--if--oh! you know what I mean. Oh! gain his pardon for me!" and she covered her face with her hand.

"Poor Frank!--it is of your pardon that he talks. Tell me, Eleonora, did you ever receive a letter from my mother?"

"Never. Where was it sent?" she said, starting.

"To Revelrig. It was written the day after the ball."

"I never went to Revelrig. Oh! if I could have spoken to you first I should have been saved from so much that was wrong. No one knew where I was."

"No, not till Sister Margaret told Herbert Bowater that her sisters had been at a ball at the town-hall the week before. Then he saw she was Miss Strangeways, and asked if she knew where you were."