Averil had just reached her own room when she remembered that she had not bidden Maud good-night. It was very late, and just for a moment she hesitated; then she crossed the passage and tapped softly at her door. There was no response. She knocked again, and then gently turned the handle. For the instant she thought the room was empty, until a sound of a low smothered sob from the bed arrested her. The moon had retired behind a cloud, and in the dim uncertain light Averil could just discern a dark form stretched across the bed. A great pang of pity crossed her as she groped her way to it—it was Maud; she had thrown herself down, fully dressed, upon the quilt, with her face buried in the pillow, and was trying to choke down the hysterical sobs that were shaking her from head to foot. The strain of the last few hours had been too great, and she had broken down the moment she found herself alone. The overmastering passion made her deaf to everything; and, as Averil stood beside her, the words, "Oh, Oliver, Oliver! cruel, cruel!" reached her ears distinctly.

There were pitying tears in Averil's eyes, and then with a sudden impulse she stooped over her and drew Maud's head to her bosom, and soothed her as one would soothe a broken-hearted child.

"Do not try to check it; you must give way at last. All this time you have borne it so bravely and alone. Why should you fear me, your sister Averil? Oh, my poor dear, I know how you have suffered. And then this last cruel blow!" Then, as bitter sobs only answered her, she went on, tenderly, "You have been so good to-day; you have not thought of yourself, but only of your poor mother. Do you think I do not know how terribly bad it has been for you?"

"Don't praise me; don't say anything kind," returned Maud, hoarsely, as her strong will forced down another quivering sob. "Poor mamma! how gladly would I change places with her! She is unhappy, but she has not this weight," putting her hands on her breast. "Averil, if anything has happened to Rodney, I shall have been my brother's murderer. Mamma would have let him go, only—" she stopped, and Averil's sisterly arms only pressed her closer.

"You must not say such things," she returned, gently. "You have been selfish and thoughtless; you did not think of his good, but only of your own; but if you had realized all this mischief, you would have been the first to bid him go."

"You say that to comfort me," she returned, in a broken voice. "But, Averil, you do not know. I shut my eyes willfully; I sacrificed Rodney to my own interests; I thought of nothing but Oliver; and now I am punished, for he has left me. He taught me to love him; he made me believe that he cared only for me; and now he is going to marry another woman!" and the poor girl shuddered as she said this.

"Dear Maud, he was not worthy of you."

"Not worthy of me?" with the old scorn in her voice. Then she broke down again, and buried her face on Averil's shoulder. "What does it matter if he were not worthy, when I loved him? I loved him! Oh, you are good to me, but you do not know—how can you know?—all I have suffered."

"I know more than you think, dear," returned Averil, in a low, thrilling voice. "I may not have suffered in the same way—for to me there is no pain like the pain of finding one we love unworthy of our affection; but if it will comfort you, Maud—if it will make you more sure of my sympathy with you in this bitter trial—I do not mind owning that I also have known trouble!"

"You have cared for some one!" starting up in her surprise. "Oh, Averil, I am so sorry."

"Well, so am I," with quaint simplicity. "It was very foolish, was it not?—a little crooked body like me. But it was my father's fault. Dear old father! how his heart was set on it! No, Maud, I am not going to tell you the story; it is not old enough. In one sense I was happier than you, for he was good—oh, so good!—though he could never have cared for me. Well, it is past and over, and I am wiser and happier now—no one suffered but myself."

"Oh, Averil, how can you speak so calmly?"

"My dear, there was a time when I could not have spoken so; when I thought life looked just like one long, dull blank, when I did not know how I was to go on living in such a dreary world. I remember I was in this heavy mood one day when the words came into my mind; 'In the world ye shall have tribulation;' and then I said to myself, 'What if this be my special cross—the one that my Lord meant me to bear? Shall I refuse it, because it is so painful, when He carried His for me?' I had been bearing it alone, much as you have done; but it came upon me then that I must kneel down and tell Him all—the disappointment, and the human shame, and the misery, and all that was making me feel so faint and sick with pain. And when I rose the burden was not so heavy, and it has been growing lighter and lighter ever since. Dear Maud, will you try my remedy?"

"I can not, Averil. You will be shocked, but I have never prayed in my life. Of course I have said my prayers—just a collect or two morning and evening, and at church; but to speak like that, to tell out one's troubles—"

"There is no comfort like it," returned Averil, in her sweet, clear voice. "When we talk to others there is so much to explain; we fear to be misunderstood; we measure our words anxiously; but there is no need with our Heavenly Friend, 'Lord, Thou knowest'—one can begin like that, and pour it all out. We are not alone any more; we fear no longer that our burden will crush us: human sympathy is sweet, but we dare not lean on it. We fear to exhaust it; there is only one sympathy that is inexhaustible."

"If I were only like you!" sighed Maud; and then, in broken words, it all came out—the tardy confession of an ill-spent youth. The barrier once removed, there were no limits to that long-deferred repentance. At last Maud saw herself by a clearer light, and owned honestly the two-fold faults that had been the bane and hinderance of her young life—pride and selfishness. Yes, she was humbled now; the scorching finger of affliction had been laid upon her, but she had refused to recognize the chastening hand. It needed another stroke, another trial, before her haughty spirit was bowed in the dust.

Maud never knew how dearly she loved her brother, until terror for his fate awoke her slumbering conscience. "If I could only suffer in his stead!" she moaned, more than once.

Averil's disciplined nature knew better than to break the bruised reed. With gentle tact and patience she listened to all Maud's bitter confession of her shortcomings. In her sturdy truth she did not venture to contradict her. Only when she had finished she said, tenderly:

"Yes, you have been very selfish; but you will be better now. If you only knew how I love you for telling me all this, Maud! I have still so many faults. Life is not easy. We must help each other; we must be real sisters, not half-hearted ones. And one thing more—we will not lose courage about our dear boy;" and then, after a few more words, and a tearful embrace from Maud, they separated.

If Averil's limbs ached and her head felt weary, there was thankfulness in her heart. At last the barrier was removed between her and Maud; the patient endurance of years was reaping its fruits of reward. Averil's generosity had already forgiven everything. Hers was the charity which "hopeth all things."

Maud was very quiet and subdued the next day. She looked ill, but nothing would induce her to spare herself.

"My mother likes to have me with her," she said, in answer to an affectionate remonstrance from Averil. "Why should Annette be troubled?" And Averil was obliged to let her have her way.

Frank kept his promise, and came early, but he could give little comfort. There was no news of Rodney, and Mr. Townley still lay in the same precarious state. He came again in the evening, and stayed to dinner. It seemed a relief to Averil to have him with them, and his cheery influence had a brightening effect on the dejected household.

Annette told him frankly that she was glad to see him, only she blushed a little at his evident delight in learning that fact. "Was I wrong to say that?" she thought; but she would not confess this doubt to Lottie.

"It is an ill wind that blows no one any good." Frank might have felt this, if he had been been in the mood for proverbs; but he was too full of sympathy for his friends, too anxious on Rodney's account, to consider any personal benefit. His father's touch of gout was certainly in his favor: still, he condoled with him dutifully on his return from Redfern House. He sent a line by a messenger the next morning to tell Averil that Mr. Townley was certainly better. "Doctor Robertson has hopes of him now," he wrote. "My father is still incapacitated for business, though he is in less pain, so I am up to my ears in work; but I will contrive to look in on you at dinner-time. I shall possibly spend the night in town, as I have an early appointment for to-morrow."

Averil carried these good tidings to Maud, who was obliged to own herself ill. She had been seized with faintness while dressing, and Lottie had summoned Averil in alarm. Averil took things into her own hands very quietly; she made Maud lie down again, and put her under Unwin's care. When Dr. Radnor came to see Mrs. Willmot she would just give him a hint to prescribe for Maud, too. Secret trouble and want of sleep were telling even on her fine constitution. She wanted care, rest, and, above all, freedom from anxiety. Averil did her best for her. She prevented Mrs. Willmot invading her daughter's room, by representing to her that Maud was trying to sleep. She and Annette mounted guard over the poor, distracted woman, who could not be induced to employ herself or to do anything but wander about aimlessly, bemoaning herself to every one who had time to listen to her.

Maud could at least be in the cool, shaded room that Unwin kept so quiet, and brood over her wretchedness in peace. Now and then Averil came to her side with a gentle word, or Lottie, in a subdued voice, asked how she felt. For the first time in her life, Maud felt it was a luxury to be ill. No one expected her to make efforts. When every one looked so grave and sad, there was no need for her to try and hide her misery.

When Frank came that night he was shocked at Averil's wan looks. The suspense of these three days was telling on her. She shook her head at his first kind speech.

"It can not be helped," she said, quietly. "I was never one of the strong ones, Frank;" and she turned the subject. "Maud is ill, too, and Mrs. Willmot is in the same miserable state, unable to settle to anything. Dear Annette is so good to her. We have not told Georgina: we can not bear to do so. It would only make one more to suffer; and she is so far away. Have you heard of Mr. Townley again to-night."

"Yes, and he is going on well. If we could only let Rodney know that—" And then Roberts announced dinner, and Frank had no time to say more.

A little later, as he was speaking to Averil in the bay-window, Roberts came in rather hastily.

"There is a man outside asking to speak to you, ma'am," he said, addressing his mistress. "He seems a rough sort of body, like a crossing-sweeper; and he refused to send his message by me. He wasn't overcivil when I wanted him to state his business. 'I'll speak to Miss Willmot, the mistress of the house, and no one else;' and that's all I could get out of him, ma'am."

"Never mind, Roberts: I'll go to him;" for the old butler looked somewhat aggrieved.

"We will go together," returned Frank. "I dare say it is some begging petition, as my father says. You play the part of Lady Bountiful far too often, and of course you are taken in."

Averil smiled, but she was in no mood to refute the accusation.

"You may come if you like," she said, with gentle nonchalance. "But I am rather apt to form my own conclusions. Where have you put him, Roberts?"

"Well, ma'am, I just shut the door on him, for he was not over and above respectable," returned the old servant. But both he and Frank were surprised to find that she recognized the man as one of her endless protÉgÉs.

"Why, it is Jimmy!" she said, as he pulled off his frowzy cap, and displayed his grizzled gray locks. "I hope your wife is not worse, Jimmy?"

"Bless your kind heart, miss, she is doing finely. It is only an errand the young gentleman asked me to do for him. 'You will put this into her own hands, Jim O'Reilly,' he says to me; and, the saints be praised!—I have done it," finished Jim, as he burrowed in the pocket of his ragged jacket and produced a dirty scrap of paper that smelled strongly of tobacco.

Averil gave a little cry, for she had recognized the handwriting, scrawled and blotted as it was.

"I must see you, Averil. I can endure this suspense no longer. Do not be afraid. Trust yourself to Jimmy. He is as honest as the day, though a bit soft. He will bring you to me."

No more—not even a signature. But there was no mistaking Rodney's clear, familiar writing. She held it out to Frank. A gleam of pleasure crossed his face as he read it.

"Shall we go at once, Averil?" for she was watching him anxiously.

"Yes, yes. I will put on my bonnet. I must just tell Maud where we are going. What a comfort to have you, Frank!"

But Jim O'Reilly, who had been standing stolidly aside, struck in here.

"I can't be taking the pair of you, surely. It is Miss Willmot the gentleman wants. Better come along of me alone, miss, and then folks won't ask so many questions."

"But I could not think of letting Miss Willmot go alone," returned Frank, decidedly. "Look here, my good fellow: I am an old friend of the family, and Mr. Seymour will be glad to see me."

But evidently Jimmy held doggedly to his own opinion, until Averil interposed.

"He is right, Jimmy. You need not be afraid of trusting this gentleman. He knows about everything. Do not let us waste any more time in talking. Roberts, we shall want a cab."

"I will fetch one round at half past nine, sharp," interrupted Jimmy. "Look here, missus," addressing Averil, "I am to bring you along of the young gentleman, ain't I? Well, begging your pardon, I must be doing it my own way. It is not dark enough for the job yet. Just keep your mind easy for another hour, and I'll be round with a four-wheeler, as sure as my name is Jim O'Reilly. We have a goodish bit to go, and I'll look out a horse that is fresh enough to take you there and back. Half past nine—not before, and not after;" and Jimmy shambled toward the door.

"Oh, Frank, don't let him go!" exclaimed Averil, in a distressed voice; and Frank nodded, and followed him out. He came back after a few minutes.

"It is all right," he observed. "The man knows what he is about. He is going to smuggle us into some slum or other. How thankful I am to be here!"

And Averil indorsed this with all her heart as she ran up-stairs to share the good tidings with Maud.