“My darling,” he cried, “this is my fault.  I ought not to have asked you to undertake such a journey.  Can you ever forgive me?”

She kissed him.

“You did all for the best, Hubert,” she said, then adding, in a whisper:  “Do you think I shall die?”

Then the doctor thought it right to interpose.

“There is no question of death,” he said; “but you must be quiet.  You must have no agitation—­that would injure you.”

Then he and Mrs. Galbraith led the beautiful, trembling girl to the room which the latter had hastily prepared for her, and, when she was installed therein, the doctor returned to the stranger, who was pacing, with quick, impatient steps, up and down the little parlor.

“How is she?” he cried, eagerly.

The doctor shook his head.

“She is young and very nervous,” he replied.  “I had better tell you at once that she will not be able to leave Castledene for a time—­all thought of continuing the journey must be abandoned.”

“But she is in no danger?” cried the traveler, and Stephen Letsom saw an agony of suspense in his face.

“No, she is not in danger; but she requires and must have both rest and care.”

“She shall have anything, if Heaven will only spare her.  Doctor, my best and safest plan will be to make a friend of you, to confide in you, and then we can arrange together what had better be done.  Can you spare me five minutes?”

Stephen Letsom nodded assent, and sat down to listen to as strange a story as he bad ever heard.

“I should imagine,” said the strange gentleman, “that no man likes to plead guilty to a folly.  I must do so.  Let me first of all introduce myself to you as Lord Charlewood.  I am the only son of the Earl of Mountdean, and my father lies dying in Italy.  I came of age only last year, and at the same time I fell in love.  Now I am not in any way dependent on my father—­the title and estate are entailed—­but I love him.  In these degenerate days it seems perhaps strange to hear a son say that he loves his father.  I have obeyed him all my life from this motive.  I would give my life for him.  But in one respect I have done that which will cause him great annoyance and anger.  I have married without his knowledge.”

The doctor looked up with greater interest; perhaps his thoughts reverted to the grave in the starlight.  Lord Charlewood moved uneasily in his chair.

“I cannot say that I am sorry,” he continued, “for I love my wife very dearly; but I do wish now that I had been less hurried, less precipitate.  My wife’s great loveliness must be my excuse.  She is the daughter of a poor curate, the Reverend Charles Trevor, who came two years ago to supply temporarily the place of the Rector of Lynton.  He brought his daughter with him; and the first moment I saw her I fell in love with her.  My heart seemed to go out from me and cleave to her.  I loved her with