“That’s right.  No fear of infection—­that’s clear,” said Raymond.

“I think not—­under God!” and Anne’s two hands unseen clasped over her throbbing, yearning heart.

“Dear old fellow!” said Raymond.  “It is such pleasure to leave mother to him.  If I don’t see him, Anne, tell him how glad I am.  I’ve no charge.  I know he will do it all right.  And mother will have you,” and he held out his hand to her.  Presently he said:  “Anne.  One thing—­”

“Yes,” she said anxiously.

“You always act on principle, I know; but don’t hang back from Miles’s friends and pleasures.  I know the old fellow, Anne.  His nature is sociable, and he wants sympathy in it.”

“I know what you mean, Raymond,” said Anne; “I do mean to try to do right—­”

“I know, I know,” said he, getting a little excited, and speaking eagerly; “but don’t let right blind you, Anne, if you censure and keep from all he likes—­if you will be a recluse and not a woman—­ he—­don’t be offended, Anne; but if you leave him to himself, then will every effort be made to turn him from you.  You don’t believe me.”

“My dear Raymond, don’t speak so eagerly,” as his cheeks flushed.

“I must!  I can’t see his happiness and yours wrecked like mine.  Go with him, Anne.  Don’t leave him to be poisoned.  Mesmerism has its power over whoever has been under the spell.  And he has—­he has!  She will try to turn him against you and mother.”

“Hush, Raymond!  Indeed I will be on my guard.  There’s no one there.  What are you looking at?”

“Camilla!” he said, with eyes evidently seeing something.  “Camilla!  Is it not enough to have destroyed one peace?”

“Raymond, indeed there is no one here.”

But he had half raised himself.  “Yes, Camilla, you have had your revenge.  Let it be enough.  No—­no; I forgive you; but I forbid you to touch her.”

He grasped Anne’s arm with one hand, and stretched the other out as though to warn some one away.  The same moment there was another outburst of the bleeding.  Anne rang for help with one hand, and held him as best she could.  It lasted long; and when it was over he was manifestly dying.  “It is coming,” he said; looking up to Julius.  “Pray!  Only first—­my love to Cecil.  I hope she is still young enough not to have had all her life spoilt.  Is her father coming?”

“To-morrow,” said Anne.

“That’s well.  Poor child! she is better free.”

How piteously sad those words of one wedded but a year!  How unlike the look that met his mother’s woeful yet tender eyes, as she held his hand.  She would aid him through that last passage as through all before, only a word of strong and tender love, as he again looked up to Julius and Anne, as if to put her in their keeping, and once more murmured something of “Love to sweet Rose!  Now, Julius, pray!”

An ever dutiful man, there was no wandering in look or tone.  He breathed ‘Amen’ once or twice, but never moved again, only his eyes still turned on his mother, and so in its time came the end.