Tea was over, and Lily and her grandfather were sitting by the fire. The night without was chilly, although it was now the middle of spring, and a raw cold wind was blowing. But the room was warm and cozy, and the occupants were thoroughly happy. Lizzie and Martha Day had been to see them in the afternoon, and had spent an hour or two with them. When Lizzie came in, she said simply, "Lily, this is my mother;" and both received a warm welcome from Old Wheels and his darling child. Martha's pale face had a flush of happiness in it, and the sombre effect of her black dress had been lightened by Lizzie, who had insisted on her mother's wearing one or two pieces of bright ribbon. Yet, notwithstanding the joy which the disclosure of their nearer and dearer relationship must have brought to both Lizzie and Martha Day, uneasy shades of expression rested occasionally on their features. The cause of this uneasiness in Lizzie seemed to be entirely within herself, and to be in no way connected with any person present in the room; but with Martha it was different. It was evident that her uneasiness was caused in a direct way by something that she saw in her daughter; and every now and then her eyes would rest on Lizzie's face with a look of wistful pain. They were not long in the society of their friends before the news of the engagement between Felix and Lily was told them; and Lizzie, forgetting for a few moments the great anxiety which pressed upon her, danced about the room in delight.

"Next to Alfred," she said, "I love Felix. There is only one other thing wanting now to complete our happiness."

She was pressed to tell what that "other thing" was; but she refused in as light a manner as she could command. That "other thing" was that Alfred might be lucky that day, and that he might get out of Mr. Sheldrake's toils. It was hard for her to show a bright face when, as it seemed to her, Alfred's fate and hers was being decided. Strangely enough, she also dwelt superstitiously in her thoughts upon the three times seven kisses Alfred had given her when he parted from her in the morning. "They will be sure to bring him luck," she had said to herself a dozen times during the day. She thought of them hopefully now, and murmured, "To-night all our troubles will be over." A happy future indeed was spread before them if fortune smiled upon Alfred. How she longed for night to come, and Alfred with the glad tidings!

"We'll all live together," she said aloud.

And Lily nodded and laughed. It was like a bright dream, where everything that was good in nature was around and about her. The woods were beautiful with various greens; sweet breezes was stirring the leaves, and stealing their secrets from them; there was not a dark cloud in the sky. The two girls crept into a corner, and with their arms around each other's necks, whispered confidence to each other. One thing--her most precious secret--Lizzie was burning to tell her friend; but she restrained herself. She had solemnly promised not to speak of it until Alfred gave her permission. In the evening, when she and her mother were at home again, she said she was tired, and she went to her room to lie down for half an hour. Thither, after a time, Martha crept, and sat by her daughter's side. Lizzie was murmuring in her sleep, and although her tones and every word she murmured were charged with love and tenderness, the sorrowful tears ran down Martha's face as she heard.

"Is this a judgment upon me for my neglect and deceit?" she asked of herself, between her sobs. "I should have looked after her better! I should have looked after her better!" But when Lizzie awoke, Martha was careful that her daughter should not see any traces of agitation. "I will wait until Alfred comes home," she thought, "and then I will tax him and discover the truth." Everything seemed to depend upon Alfred's return.

And now it was night, and Old Wheels and Lily were together in their room. Old Wheels was reading aloud, and Lily was working. There was no one else in the house. Mrs. Podmore and little Polly had gone to London for some bits of clothing which friends had gathered together for them; they were expected to return by train at about ten o'clock. Every now and then, Old Wheels paused in his reading, and made a remark. Lily understood very little of the story the old man was reading; she was thinking. Scarcely anything but Felix was in her mind.

"Mrs. Podmore will be delighted to hear the news," said Old Wheels in one of the intervals; "although she has been hinting at it mysteriously from the very first day we saw Felix--when he drove us home in the waggonette. That's eight o'clock striking. Alfred ought to be home before now."

"It's nine o'clock sometimes before he comes home," said Lily; "but I wish he was here. I want to tell him."

Old Wheels read, and Lily worked, for another half an hour, and at the end of that time the old man laid his book aside.

"I shall have to read all this over again," he said, with pretended petulance; "I am sure you have not been attending to me."

"I haven't," she replied, with a happy light in her eyes; "I have been thinking all the while of Felix."

"So I've been reading nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix; and you've heard nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix. Well, well, my darling; I am more than satisfied. Now, then," he said merrily, "come to the window, and look out. It is blowing quite cold, dear child. Let me keep you warm in my arms. Ah, Lily, Lily, now I can die happy when my time comes. But what am I thinking of? To speak of such a subject at such a time! Talk of dying, indeed! I intend to live, and to see my darling's happiness. Ah, God is good!" Then, after a pause, he said, slyly, "But really this is serious--if it's to be nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix! Look along the road--what do you see?"

"Felix," she replied, entering into his humour, and to dispel his sadness; "he's a long way off though, for he'll not be here for an hour and a half. But I see him coming."

"Of course you do. Now look up at the ceiling--what do you see?"

"Felix."

"And into the lamp. What do you see?"

"Felix."

"And into the fire. What do you see?"

"Felix."

"Ah, child!" he said, touching her eyelids gently; "Felix is not on the road, nor in the room; he is here."

"No," she replied in the tenderest of tones, taking his hand, and placing it on her heart; "he is here."

She was on her knees before the fire, looking into it, and remained so for many minutes, the old man standing quietly by her side, with his hand on her shoulder, looking down upon her. "A happier fate awaits her, thank God!" he thought, "than fell to her mother's lot."

He sat down in his chair at the thought, and mused on the time gone by, and thought of Lily's father too, and wondered as to his fate.

"Strange," he mused, "that one so unstable as he should have been so faithful to his written promise. Strange that I have never heard of him since that dreadful time! If he is living now, would it not be a good thing that he should witness his daughter's happiness? But if the old vice is in him still!—No, it would be impossible to find him, and it is better as it is. This is a happy turning-tide for all of us."

Nine o'clock struck. Lily started up.

"I wish Alfred was home," she said impatiently. "I do so want him to know!"

"Perhaps he's at Lizzie's," said the old man. "Shall I run round and see?"

"Yes, yes," cried Lily, "and tell him to come at once. Let Lizzie come too, and Mr. Musgrave. Mr. Musgrave is very fond of me, grandfather, and I like him very much. But want Alfred most."

She was tying a muffler round the old man's throat, when she suddenly exclaimed, "It's a shame to let you go; I'll run round, grandfather."

"No, child. You will catch cold. And think," he added gaily; "Felix may come in any moment. I shall not be gone long."

She listened to his footsteps and to the slamming of the street-door, and then knelt before the fire again. What a day has this been--never to be forgotten! the white day of her life! In an hour her hero would be with her. She rehearsed the scene that had taken place between them again and again. "I want a home--a helpmate. And there is but one woman in the world who can be to me what my heart yearns for. Lily--will you be my wife?" His wife! Why, if all the world were before her to choose from--if she could fix her own lot, her own destiny--that is what she would choose to be. Ah, how happy she would try to make him! A thought of Alfred crept in. Felix would be a good friend to him--a true friend. How much happier Alfred had been these last few days! his troubles seemed to be over. His smiling face, as she had seen it this very morning, when he ran back and kissed her, appeared in the fire among her other fancies that she conjured up there. Alfred and Lizzie married--herself and Felix in their little home—. She saw every room in it, and saw them all smiling at one another in the fire before which she was kneeling. But why was not Alfred here now? Swiftly she thought, "He cannot be with Lizzie; for the first thing Lizzie would tell him about would be about Felix and me, and Alfred would have run home to me at once." She started to her feet, and ran nervously to the window; and as she looked out into the dark roadway, a knock came at the street-door. "That is Alfred!" she cried, and ran down-stairs; but when she was in the dark passage, she remembered that the knock was not Alfred's. Alfred always knocked at the door with a flourish; this that she had heard was a single knock. It could not be her grandfather, either; for he had a latch-key. Perhaps it was Mrs. Podmore. The knock came again, and she mustered up sufficient courage to go to the street-door, and ask who was there. A strange voice answered her. "Did Mr. Wheels live there?" it asked. "Yes," she answered.

"Is his granddaughter at home?"

"Yes."

"I want to see her."

"What for?"

These questions were asked by Lily through the closed door: she was alone in the house, and was frightened to draw the lock.

"What for?" she inquired again, faintly.

"I can't say, unless I see her."

"She is speaking to you now; I am she."

"Is anybody with you?"

Almost overcome with fear, Lily answered, "No; what do you want me for?"

"To give you a letter."

Lily hesitated still: the voice was that of a stranger, the locality was somewhat of a lonely one, and her grandfather had warned her not to open the door at night to any person she did not know, if there was no man in the house.

"Wait," she said, "until my grandfather returns. He will be here presently, and then I will take the letter."

"Then I can't give it to you, miss," the voice said. "My instructions are to give it into your hand, and into your hand only, when there is no one near."

"Why? What is the letter about?" she asked, in an agony of terror, and murmuring inly, "O, why doesn't grandfather return?"

"I don't know what's in the letter. But the gentleman who gave it to me told me to say, if anything like this occurred, that it was a matter of life or death to some one that you loved."

Life or death to some one whom she loved! She hesitated no longer, but tore open the door, panting. A man, who looked like a common labouring man, stood in the dusk.

"I am only carrying out my instructions, miss," he said, touching his cap. "Here is the letter, and I am to wait for an answer. You can shut the door while you read it, if you're afraid. I'll wait outside."

She closed the door, and running like a deer up-stairs into the light, opened the letter. It was as follows:

"My dear Miss Lily,--You must read this letter by yourself, and no other person must see it or know of it. I would come instead of writing, but my appearance, and the circumstance of our conversing privately in your grandfather's house, might excite suspicions. Your brother cannot come home, and it is probable that his life hangs upon your prompt action; his safety certainly depends on your secrecy. He is in the greatest danger. If you love him and wish to save him, come and see me immediately. I am waiting at the end of the road, at the corner of the True Blue public-house. The messenger who brings this will take your message, or will accompany you to where I am waiting for you. You must decide without one moment's delay. If you resolve not to come--a contingency I cannot contemplate, knowing you--you may never see your brother again. In any case, believe me to be your faithful friend,

"David Sheldrake."

There was so much in the note of hidden and terrible danger to the brother she loved so dearly that, without considering, she ran to her room for her hat and mantle, and hurried into the street. The messenger was waiting.

"Do you know where the gentleman is who gave you this letter?" she asked breathlessly, as she tied the ribbons of her hat.

"Yes, miss; he's waiting at the True Blue, and told me to bring you to him if you asked me."

"I will come with you. Walk as quick as you can; I'll keep up with you."

The messenger, without answering, walked at once at a rapid pace in the direction of the True Blue, and Lily followed him. The road was long, and was but dimly lighted. When they arrived at the meeting-place, Lily was completely out of breath, and her heart beat so violently that she reeled and would have fallen, but for a friendly arm held out for her support. She clung to it instinctively, and looking up the next moment, saw that it was Mr. Sheldrake who had come to her assistance. He waited in a considerate and respectful attitude until she had recovered herself, and when she withdrew herself from his support, did not press his attentions upon her.

"I am glad you have come," he then said: she was about to speak, but he anticipated her; "it is a great relief to me. Alfred was not mistaken in you, nor am I."

"Where is he?" she asked, in an agitated tone. "What is the matter? Has any accident happened to him?"

"No accident has happened to him," replied Mr. Sheldrake gravely. "But we can scarcely talk here; it is dangerous; the very walls have ears. There is a private room in this public-house in which we can talk for a few minutes undisturbed. Nay," he said, in a sad tone, "do not hesitate at such a time. When we can talk without being observed, I will instantly convince you that I am not worthy of being suspected."

"Why cannot we talk here?"

He looked round cautiously, and lowered his voice. "Because, if any person overheard us, your brother would be lost. It would be out of your power then to save him."

Lily thought of Felix, and hastily glanced through the partially-open door of the public-house. There was a clock hanging up, and she saw that it was half-past nine. A comfortable-looking woman was standing within the bar, and her husband, with his shirt-sleeves tucked up, was busy serving the customers.

"There is a private room behind the bar," said Mr. Sheldrake; "that little parlour with the door open. You can ask for the use of it yourself, if you like. But I warn you not to delay. Time is precious."

He spoke in a cold tone, and as if his feelings were deeply wounded by her suspicions of him. Lily walked into the public-house, followed by Mr. Sheldrake, and beckoned the landlady aside.

"Can I have the use of your parlour," she asked, "for a very few moments, undisturbed, to speak with this gentleman?"

"Yes, miss," answered the landlady. She knew Lily, and was surprised at her appearance there. "You can come round this way; no one shall disturb you."

Lily and Mr. Sheldrake walked into the little room, and the landlady closed the door of communication between it and the bar. Lily, standing near this door, waited in painful suspense for Mr. Sheldrake to speak. He had noticed that when she entered the room she had moved timorously towards the door as if for protection, and he experienced a feeling of mingled anger and mortification, any outward exhibition of which, however, he successfully repressed. When he spoke he spoke slowly, as if studying his words.

"Your behaviour towards me is ungenerous to a degree. At any other time, and under any other circumstances, I might be disposed to wash my hands of this affair at once. Notwithstanding the feelings I entertain for you--do not be alarmed; I am not going to speak of them--I owe to myself a certain amount of self-respect, and I stand in danger of forfeiting this, and of placing myself in a false light, by silent submission to your distrust of me. But"--and here his voice grew less restrained, and his words were expressed with more warmth--"I can afford even this renunciation of self-defence, simple as it is, and unsupported, except by my consistent behaviour towards yourself and your brother, in the consciousness that what I am doing is done out of pure disinterested friendship and esteem."

"For mercy's sake," she implored, "speak more plainly, and tell me for what purpose you have brought me here."

"For no purpose of my own; for your brother's sake. It is a matter of life or death to him."

She clasped her hands, and could not find words to speak for her agony. She had never appeared more fascinating in his eyes than she appeared to him now, as she stood before him in pleading attitude. But although he was under the spell of this fascination, and although he knew that she was at his mercy, he was instinctively conscious, bold and unscrupulous as he was, that he held no power for ill over her. Her innocence and trustfulness were a stronger armour than any which cunning and artifice could supply. As he gazed at her in admiration, he thought how proud he should be of her if she was his, and thought, too, taking credit for the generosity of the sentiment, that if the worst came to the worst, he would marry her.

"Where is the note that I wrote to you?" he asked.

"Here it is."

"Had you not better be seated?" he said, as he took the note from her hand. "You will want all your strength."

She sank into the chair he handed her, and he, glancing at the note carelessly, put it into the fire.

"There must be no chance," he said, when it was destroyed, "of such evidence falling into strange hands. For your brother's sake."

"You said in it," she said, in exquisite distress, "that his life--his life! hangs upon my action."

"And upon mine; we two can save him. The compact we entered into for his good can now be carried out. I am ready to perform my part; are you ready to perform yours?"

"I will do anything for my brother--anything. But I do not understand your meaning."

"Your brother must see you immediately; he will tell you in what way you are able to save him."

"I am ready to see him!" she cried; "I want to see him! Where is he! O, Mr. Sheldrake, if you respect me, let me see him at once."

"That is my wish, and the reason why I am here. You know that I respect you--you know that I—" The shudder that seized her warned him of the indiscretion he was about to commit. "But this is no time to speak of anything but Alfred. Every moment's delay now may be fatal to him. What is done must be done at once."

"Bring him to me, then; I will wait. Bring him to me, but do not torture me with suspense! Have pity on me!"

She held out her hands imploringly to him, and he took them in his, and looked steadily into the pale agitated face.

"I do sincerely pity you, Lily; my heart bleeds for you. But it is in your power to avert all this misery. Listen to me calmly. I cannot bring Alfred to you; he is in hiding, and dare not show himself. I can take you to him. I have a cab at the door. Come."

She withdrew her hands from his grasp, and retreated a step or two, nearer to the door of communication with the bar. He smiled bitterly.

"Still distrustful!" he exclaimed, with a frown. "Well, be it as you will. To-morrow, when shame and disgrace are at your door--shame and disgrace which, by the simplest of acts, you could have averted--to-morrow, when you learn the miserable fate that has befallen the brother who loved you so fondly--you may repent what you have done. But, unjust, and cruel as you are in this, do me then at least the justice of acknowledging that I did my best--more, I believe, by heaven! than any other man in my position would have done--to save both him and you. Good-night."

He had acted well, and as he turned from her, his heat beat exultantly at her next words.

"Stay, for pity's sake! There is no sacrifice that I would not make for Alfred's sake. He knows it--he knows it!"

"He believed it, firmly; and he in his turn would be ready to make any sacrifice for you. I have heard him say so dozens of times."

"I know, I know. He has been so good to me! But all this is so sudden and terrible, and I am so much in the dark--with no one to advise me—" She could not proceed for her tears.

"I did not think," said Mr. Sheldrake gently and with a touch of pride, "when I sent for you that any persuasion would be necessary to induce you to act as your heart must surely prompt. I wished my disinterested conduct to speak for itself. Knowing my own motives and the more than good-will to yourself which prompted them, I wished you to depend upon me, and to trust in me, as you may do implicitly, believe me. I have in my pocket proof of my sincerity and faithfulness, but I did not intend to use it. I almost despise myself now for doing so, but I do it out of pity for you--out of a warmer feeling which you know I entertain for you."

He took from his pocket-book the paper which Alfred had written at his dictation on Epsom Downs.

"Read this, and decide; for I cannot stop one minute longer."

Lily read the paper with difficulty; the words blurred in her sight:

"I am in great trouble and danger. My friend, Mr. Sheldrake, is the only man I can trust, and the only man who can save me. Put full faith and trust in him.--Alfred."

"Will that satisfy you?" asked Mr. Sheldrake, almost tenderly. "You know Alfred's handwriting. Will you come and see him now?"

"Forgive me for my suspicions," said Lily, almost distracted by conflicting doubts; "I will come with you. But I must send a line to my grandfather first, explaining my absence."

"Not explaining," said Mr. Sheldrake, placing writing-materials before her; "no mention must be made of Alfred or me."

Lily wrote hurriedly:

"Dear, dear Grandfather,--I am compelled to go away suddenly for a little while. Do not be anxious about me. I will return soon, and you will know that I have done right. Tell Felix this; I dare not explain now.--Your loving child,--Lily."

"The messenger who brought my note to you will take it," said Mr. Sheldrake. "If you can contrive to look less sad--if you could even smile--as we go out, it might avert suspicion, should any one have been on the watch."

They went out of the public-house together, and Lily called a sad smile to her lips, although her heart was fainting within her at the prospect of Alfred's danger. The messenger who had brought Mr. Sheldrake's note was outside, talking to his companions. She hurried to him, and giving him the paper she had written to her grandfather, asked him to deliver it, putting sixpence into his hand at the same time. The next moment she was in the cab.

"One moment," Mr. Sheldrake said to her hurriedly, "I want to settle with the landlady."

He had seen the messenger who was to deliver Lily's note to her grandfather go into the public-house; Mr. Sheldrake followed him.

"The young lady has changed her mind," he said to the man; "give me the letter back. Here is a shilling from her."

The man delivered up the letter, glad to dispose of it on such good terms; and Mr. Sheldrake, throwing half-a-crown on the bar, said, "Give your customers some beer, landlady;" and departed amidst a chorus of "Thank'ee, sir," from the men standing about inside.

"Perhaps you'll prefer sitting by yourself," said Mr. Sheldrake to Lily; "I'll get up outside, and sit by the driver. Keep up your courage."

This act of delicacy on his part seemed to assure her.

"Thank you," she said hurriedly and nervously; "shall we be long?"

"No; I'll tell the driver to drive quick?"

He was on the box, and the driver had started when he saw a number of men running along the road, with alarm on their faces.

"What's the matter?" he called out to them.

"An accident on the line," they called out, in answer, as they ran past towards the railway station. Mr. Sheldrake did not stop to ascertain its nature, and the cab drove quickly off.

Meantime Old Wheels made his way to Mr. Musgrave's house. He was surprised to find, when he arrived there, that all within was dark. He knocked at the door more than once, and obtaining no reply, walked round the house, endeavouring to find an explanation for the cause of the strange desertion. He saw no person, however, and he returned to the front door. As he stood there irresolute, the same thought came to his mind that had occurred to Lily; that Lizzie would have been certain to tell Alfred of the engagement between Felix and Lily, and that Alfred would have come home immediately to hear all the news concerning it. "Alfred could not have passed me on the way," he mused; "I should have been certain to see him. Nor did Lizzie." He could arrive at no clear understanding of the circumstances, and he was about to retrace his steps uneasily, when a voice said,

"Have you knocked, Mr. Wheels?"

It was Martha Day who spoke.

"Yes," the old man replied; "but I have received no reply. I have been here for nearly ten minutes, but I have been unable to make any one hear."

"Perhaps Lizzie is asleep. I have been away nearly three hours, looking after my boxes. I did not intend to come back to-night, but I could not rest away from my darling. Come round the back way, Mr. Wheels. Lizzie has shown me where she leaves the key of the back door sometimes."

They went to the rear of the house, and Martha found the key.

"Yes, here it is; I suppose my girl has gone out for a walk. With Alfred perhaps."

"I can scarcely think that," the old man said, "the night is so cheerless."

"It is cold and dreary, out of doors," assented Martha.

"I came round to see if Alfred was here. Lily is uneasy because he has not come home, and she wants him to hear the news about her and Felix."

Martha, groping about in the dark for matches, seemed to find something strange in this, for she said, in an uneasy tone,

"Alfred not come home, and Lizzie not here!"

"But perhaps she is asleep, as you said," suggested Old Wheels.

"I'll see," said Martha, feeling her way to Lizzie's room. "You won't mind stopping here in the dark a bit."

As Martha felt her way along the passage and up the stairs, she called softly, "Lizzie! Lizzie!" But no voice answered her. She went into Lizzie's bedroom, and felt the bed. Lizzie was not there. She began to be alarmed. She glided quickly down the stairs again, and going to the parlour, found the matches, and lit the lamp. Then she called to the old man.

"I cannot understand it," she said, as if communing with herself. "Can Lizzie have been frightened because of what I said to her this afternoon? O Lizzie! Lizzie! O my darling child!"

She sat on a chair, and rocked herself to and fro in her distress.

"Because of what you said to her this afternoon?" questioned Old Wheels, sharing Martha's distress. "We are all closely connected by affectionate ties, Mrs. Day. May I ask what you said to her that causes you to be alarmed now?"

"No, no!" cried Martha, covering her face with her hands. "You are his grandfather, and I dare not tell you. But a mother's eyes can see! a mother's eyes can see!"

A sudden paleness stole into the old man's face, and his lips trembled.

"Is it something connected with Alfred? Nay, answer me; I am an old man, and I love Lizzie."

"It would have been better for her," sobbed the unhappy woman, "if she had never seen him. He has brought shame upon her, and I only am to blame! I should have watched over her; I should not have left her alone! O, Lizzie, my darling! come back to me!"

"If I understand you aright," said the old man, with an aching heart, "and I am afraid that I do, a new grief is brought upon us by the unhappy boy--a grief which I never dreamed of, never suspected. I thought our troubles were coming to an end, and that this day, until now so bright and so full of hope, was the beginning of a happier life for all of us. Alas for the errors of youth! God knows I have striven to do my best, and my duty!"

He was overwhelmed with sorrow, but the thought of Lily waiting at home for him aroused him to action.

"I must get home to my darling," he said, gazing sadly at the bowed figure of the unhappy mother; "she is alone in the house. Will you come with me?"

He took her unresisting hand, and she accompanied him to the street-door, but she paused there, and said, with a despairing look around,

"No, I must go and seek Lizzie--I cannot come."

"Do you know where she is likely to be?" he asked pityingly.

"No," she replied helplessly; "I don't know which way to turn. I'll wait here; perhaps she'll return soon. It will be best for me to wait."

He did not urge her farther, but saying he would see her again before the night was over, he hurried away, leaving her alone with her grief. His own heart was pierced with keenest sorrow, and he scarcely dared trust himself to think.