“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.”

“Ah, yes! disobedience—­tacit deception—­temper.  Oh! they have brought their just punishment.  But that letter!”

“I think it was to explain poor Frank’s conduct at the races.  Perhaps, as the servants at Revelrig had no knowledge of you, it may have been returned, and my mother’s letter have been left untouched.  I will see.”

They knew they must not delay one another, and parted; Julius walking homewards by the Hall, where, alas! there was only one of the family able to move about the house, and she seldom left her patient.

Julius did, however, find her coming down-stairs with Dr. Worth, and little as he gathered that was reassuring in the physician’s words, there was a wistful moisture about her eyes, a look altogether of having a bird in her bosom, which made him say, as the doctor hurried off, “Anne, some one must be better.”

“Cecil is,” she said; and he had nearly answered, “only Cecil,” but her eyes brimmed over suddenly, and she said, “I am so thankful!”

“Miles!” he exclaimed.

She handed him a telegram.  The Salamanca was at Spithead; Miles telegraphed to her to join him.

“Miles come!  Thank God!  Does mother know?”

“Hush! no one does,” and with a heaving breast she added, “I answered that I could not, and why, and that he must not come.”

“No, I suppose he must not till he is free of his ship.  My poor Anne!”

“Oh no!  I know he is safe.  I am glad!  But the knowledge would tear your mother to pieces.”

“Her soul is in Raymond now, and to be certain of Miles being at hand would be an unspeakable relief to him.  Come and tell them.”