‘Oh!  I’m very sorry.  I had not heard a word of it.’

’No one does but old Wyat.  There’s Milly there never asks neither—­his own child!’

‘Weakness, or what?’

‘One o’ them fits.  He’ll slide awa’ in one o’ them some day, and no one but old Wyat to know nor ask word about it; that’s how ‘twill be.’

’Will you please hand him this note, if he is well enough to look at it, and say I am at the door?’

She took it with a peevish nod and a grunt, closing the door in my face, and in a few minutes returned—­

‘Come in wi’ ye,’ said Dame Wyat, and I appeared.

Uncle Silas, who, after his nightly horror or vision, lay extended on a sofa, with his faded yellow silk dressing-gown about him, his long white hair hanging toward the ground, and that wild and feeble smile lighting his face—­a glimmer I feared to look upon—­his long thin arms lay by his sides, with hands and fingers that stirred not, except when now and then, with a feeble motion, he wet his temples and forehead with eau de Cologne from a glass saucer placed beside him.

‘Excellent girl! dutiful ward and niece!’ murmured the oracle; ’heaven reward you—­your frank dealing is your own safety and my peace.  Sit you down, and say who is this Captain Oakley, when you made his acquaintance, what his age, fortune, and expectations, and who the aunt he mentions.’

Upon all these points I satisfied him as fully as I was able.

‘Wyat—­the white drops,’ he called, in a thin, stern tone.  ’I’ll write a line presently.  I can’t see visitors, and, of course, you can’t receive young captains before you’ve come out.  Farewell!  God bless you, dear.’

Wyat was dropping the ‘white’ restorative into a wine-glass and the room was redolent of ether.  I was glad to escape.  The figures and whole mise en scene were unearthly.

‘Well, Milly,’ I said, as I met her in the hall, ’your papa is going to write to him.’

I sometimes wonder whether Milly was right, and how I should have acted a few months earlier.

Next day whom should we meet in the Windmill Wood but Captain Oakley.  The spot where this interesting rencontre occurred was near that ruinous bridge on my sketch of which I had received so many compliments.  It was so great a surprise that I had not time to recollect my indignation, and, having received him very affably, I found it impossible, during our brief interview, to recover my lost altitude.

After our greetings were over, and some compliments neatly made, he said—­

’I had such a curious note from Mr. Silas Ruthyn.  I am sure he thinks me a very impertinent fellow, for it was really anything but inviting—­extremely rude, in fact.  But I could not quite see that because he does not want me to invade his bed-room—­an incursion I never dreamed of—­I was not to present myself to you, who had already honoured me with your acquaintance, with the sanction of those who were most interested in your welfare, and who were just as well qualified as he, I fancy, to say who were qualified for such an honour.’