"What--the rights of women?"

"Ay. This is a civil marriage--not mocking her with antiquated servile vows," she says. "Ah, well, it was my doing, I suppose.

Clio Tallboys held forth in private, I believe, to poor Gussie, on theories that were mere talk in her, but which this poor girl has taken in earnest."

"Very sad earnest she may find it, I fear. Can I do anything for you?" as they reached the gate of Aucuba Villa.

"No, thank you, unless to get the house off my hands."

"You are alone. Will you not come and spend the evening with us?"

"That is very kind, but I have too much to do, and besides, Sister Margaret is coming to spend the night with me."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Yes, Mr. Charnock, I trust I have learnt something in this spell of work. I've not been for nothing in such scenes with those Sisters and young Bowater. I'm more ignorant than half the poor things that I've heard talk of their faith and hope; but I see it is not the decorous humbug it once looked like. And now that I would have learnt, here I go to Monaco."

"You will learn. You have a work before you that will teach you."

"My boys are young enough to start with on a different tack," she said. "You will tell me--no--I'll not hinder you now. I shall see you again."

Julius was too anxious to get home to refuse to be released, much as he felt for this brave woman. The day before, Herbert had been frightfully faint and exhausted by the morning's attack of fever, but had been so still ever since that there was a shade of hope that the recurrence might not take place; and this hope grew stronger, when Jenny came into the outer room to say that the usual time for the fever was passing so quietly in a sort of sleep that Dr. Worth seemed to think rally possible, if only there was no fresh access.

They stood over the fire, and Julius asked, "Can't you lie on the sofa, Jenny? I can stay."

"No," said Jenny, restlessly. "No, I can't. I know you have something to tell me."

"Moy has come home, Jenny. He is in terrible trouble. His daughter has eloped with young Simmonds at the training stables."

"The most appropriate end of her bringing up," said Jenny, in the hard tone it was so difficult to answer--it was so unlike herself-- and her thought was that weak pity and forbearance would hinder exertions in Archie's cause. "Generous at other folks' expense,"

said she to herself. "Sparing the guilty and leaving the innocent to exile!"

But a moaning murmur, and Cranstoun's movement at once summoned them both to the bedside.

Alas! here was the attack that the doctor had evidently apprehended as likely to be fatal. Hour after hour did sister, nurse, and friend stand watching, and doing their best, their piteously little best, while consciousness, if there was any, was far out of their reach.

Late into the night it went on, and then followed the collapse, with locked teeth, which could hardly be drawn asunder to put the stimulus hopelessly between them, and thus came the tardy December dawn, when the church-bell made Jenny bid Julius not stay, but only first read the commendatory prayer.

"I thought there was a little more revival just now," he said; "his hands are warmer, and he really did swallow."

The old nurse shook her head. "That's the way before they go," said she. "Don't ye wish him, poor lamb, it makes it the harder for him."

Julius prayed the prayer, and as he tenderly laid his hand on the brow, he wondered whether he should find the half-closed eyes shut for ever on his return.

But as he went, there was a quiver of lip and flicker of eyelid, the lightening, as Cranky called it, was evidently gaining ground.

Herbert's faint whisper was heard again--"Jenny!"

"Dearest!"

"The Lord's Prayer!"

She began,--his fingers tightened on hers. "Pray it for old Moy,"

he said; and as she paused, scarce hearing or understanding, "He--he wants it," gasped Herbert. "No! One can't pray it, without--"

another pause. "Help me, Jenny. Say it--O Lord, who savedst us-- forgive us. Help us to forgive from our hearts that man his trespasses. Amen."

Jenny said it. Herbert's voice sank in the Amen. He lay breathing in long gasps; but he thus breathed still when Julius came back, and Jenny told him that a few words had passed, adding--

"Julius, I will say nothing bitter again. God help me not to think it."

Did Herbert hear? Was that the reason of the calm which made the white wasted face so beautiful, and the strange soft cool hush throughout the room?

CHAPTER XXXIV Silver Hair

And how should I your true love know From another man?--Friar of Orders Gray

"Please God, I can try again."

Those were the words with which Herbert Bowater looked into his Rector's face on awaking in the evening of that same December day from one of a series of sleeps, each sweeter and longer than the last, and which had borne him over the dreaded hours, without fever, and with strengthening pulse.

Julius had not ventured to leave the sick-room that whole day, and when at last he went home and sank into the chair opposite Terry, for the first time through all these weeks of trouble and tension, he burst into a flood of tears.

He had hardly made the startled lad understand that life, not death, had thus overcome him, when the door flew open, and in rushed Rosamond, crying, "Julius, Julius, come! It is he or his ghost!"

"Who? What?"

"It is your hair! At Mrs. Douglas's grave! He'll be gone! Make haste--make haste!"

He started up, letting her drag him along, but under protest. "My dear, men _do_ come to have hair like mine."

"I tell you it was at our graves--our own--I touched him. I had this wreath for Raymond, and there he was, with his hat off, at the railing close to Mrs. Douglas's. I thought his back was yours, and called your name, and he started, and I saw--he had a white beard, but he was not old. He just bowed, and then went off very fast by the other gate, towards Wil'sbro'. I did call, 'Wait, wait,' but he didn't seem to hear. Oh, go, go, Julius! Make haste!"

Infected by the wild hope, Julius hurried on the road where his wife had turned his face, almost deriding himself for obeying her, when he would probably only overtake some old family retainer; but as, under the arch of trees that overhung the road, he saw a figure in the moonlight, a thrill of recognition came over him as he marked the vigorous tread of the prime of life, and the white hair visible in the moonlight, together with something utterly indescribable, but which made him call out, "Archie! Archie Douglas! wait for me!"

The figure turned. "Julius!" came in response; the two cousins'

hands clasped, and there was a sob on either side as they kissed one another as brothers.

"Archie! How could you!--Come back!" was all that Julius could say, leaning breathlessly against him and holding him tight.

"No! Do not know that I have been here. I was sent to London on business. I could not help running home in the dark. No one must know it. I am dead to them."

"No, Archie, you are not. Gadley has confessed and cleared you.

Come home!"

"Cleared me!" The two arms were stretched up to the sky, and there was the sound of a mighty sob, as though the whole man, body, soul, and spirit, were relieved from an unspeakable burthen. "Say it again, Julius!"