Aunt Penelope fidgeted and trembled. A great spot of pink colour came on one of her cheeks, leaving the other pale.

"Well, have your say," she murmured. "Have your say, I'm sure I don't care."

But when Vernon had done speaking, there was my dear old auntie crying as though her heart would break. I was about to comfort her, or at least to try to do so, when there came a hasty knock at the door. A servant appeared with a telegram on a salver. Vernon tore it open, it was addressed to him, and had been brought across from his hotel. His face turned pale.

"There is no answer," he said to the man, who withdrew. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, and with his other hand he drew Aunt Penelope to her feet.

"I have something to tell you both," he said. "We are sent for; we have to go to Hanbury Square. There has been a very bad accident. I cannot quite understand this telegram, but he is hurt. His motor came into collision with another last night, and he was thrown out and hurt rather badly on his head. It may not be a great deal; it may be--everything. We are to go at once."

Now I knew why I had lain awake all that long night, why I had felt instinctively that there was a dark cloud coming up and up and enveloping my sky. I did not say a word. There are times when one cannot shed tears, tears are so inadequate. I ran upstairs and put on my hat and jacket, and Aunt Penelope stumbled after me and got into her outdoor things, and Vernon had a carriage at the door, and in a few minutes we were off.

A few minutes later we found ourselves in Hanbury Square. There were two doctors' carriages at the door, but they moved away to make room for us.

We entered. The servants looked distracted, the solemn sort of order which always prevailed in that great house was lacking on that special morning. An elderly man, with a fine head and a shock of snow-white hair, was coming down the stairs. He turned in the hall and looked at us three, and especially he looked at me.

"Am I right or wrong," he said, "but do you happen to be the young lady my patient is calling out for?"

"Father," I said. "My father; you are speaking of my father?"

"I am speaking of Major Dalrymple."

"He is my father."

"And his name is Grayson," snapped Aunt Penelope.

The doctor took no notice of her, but he put his hand on mine.

"You've got to be very brave, my dear," he said. "I'm glad you have come. He is ill, you know; in fact, rather bad; in fact, very bad. Come softly, I'll take you up to his room."

I followed the doctor. We went up to the first floor. The doctor turned the handle of a door. There was a s.p.a.cious room; within it looked like a hospital ward. Most of the furniture had been removed, the floor was covered with white linen, stretched very tightly over the thick carpet.

A narrow bedstead had been drawn out into the centre of the room, the curtains had been removed. There was a table covered with white cloths, on which bottles had been placed. There were two trained nurses moving softly about the room.

A man lay stretched on his back in the centre of the bed. I went quickly up to him.

"Now, show courage, don't give way," said the doctor.

I knelt down by the man and looked into his eyes.

"I said you'd come."

His voice was so low I could scarcely recognise it, but his eyes smiled at me. There never were such blue eyes, there never was anyone in all the world who could smile as sweetly as my father. I knelt by him without speaking one word. The doctor stood behind me without moving.

Presently my father raised his voice a trifle.

"Leave us two quite alone," he said.

The doctor and the nurses immediately went out. When there was no one else present my father said:

"Stoop very low, Heather."

I did stoop.

"I said last night 'the evening of life'--the night has come. You will keep my secret always? Promise."

"Yes," I said.

He smiled at me again and then closed his eyes.

The doctor came back. Suddenly he bent forward and put his hand on my father's hand and felt where his pulse ought to be, and then he said to me:

"Come away, my dear," and I went.

They asked me downstairs, those two who waited, what my father had said, and what had happened, but I only replied: "I will keep his secret--we must all keep it--for his dear sake."

I have kept it to this day. I am a happy wife and mother now, and the old things are pa.s.sed away. I never see Lady Helen, and I am glad of that. I like to forget that she ever came into my life, and into father's. Father, of course, is very happy, happier than any of us. I talk to my children about him on Sunday evenings, and we wonder together what he is doing in the land where there are no secrets, and where no one is misunderstood.