Mrs. Tuke came into the room on tip-toe, and closed the door softly behind her. There was a mysterious expression in her eyes, and she began at once to straighten the chairs and re-arrange the antimacassars. Her best parlour had been turned, for the time being, into a bedroom. To carry Rufus Sterne up the steep and narrow staircase was a task the fishermen refused to undertake, especially as Rufus had pleaded to be allowed to remain on the sofa. So a bed had been set up in the parlour—not without serious misgivings on the part of Mrs. Tuke, though she admitted the convenience of the arrangement later on. After Mrs. Tuke had arranged the furniture and antimacassars to her satisfaction, she advanced to the side of the bed.

"A lady has called to see you," she said, in an awed whisper.

"A lady?" Rufus questioned, with a slight lifting of the eyebrows.

Mrs. Tuke nodded.

"To see me or simply to inquire?"

"To see you."

"Do I know the lady?" and a faint tinge of colour came into his cheek.

"I suppose so. You ought to do at any rate. It's that scare-away American as is staying at the Hall." And Mrs. Tuke turned and looked apprehensively toward the door.

Rufus felt his heart give a sudden bound, but he answered quietly enough: "Is she waiting in the passage?"

"No, I turned her into your room. Are you going to see her?"

"Most certainly. I think it is awfully kind of her to call."

"I suppose being a furrener explains things?"

"Explains what, Mrs. Tuke?"

"Well, in my day young ladies had different notions of what was the proper thing to do."

"No doubt, Mrs. Tuke; but the world keeps advancing, you see."

"Keeps advancing, do you call it. I am thankful that none of my girls was brought up that way." And Mrs. Tuke walked with her most stately gait out of the room.

Rufus waited with rapidly beating heart. For days past—ever since the pain had become bearable, in fact—he had been longing for a glimpse of the sweet face that had captivated his fancy from the first. That she would call to see him he did not anticipate for a moment. That she had made inquiries concerning his condition he knew from his conversations with Dr. Pendarvis. More than that he could not expect, whatever he might desire. Hence, to be told that she was in the house, that she was waiting to see him, seemed to set vibrating every nerve he possessed.

He heard a faint murmur of voices coming across the narrow lobby, and wondered what Mrs. Tuke was saying to her visitor. He hoped she would not feel it incumbent upon her to unburden her puritanical soul. When Mrs. Tuke was "drawn out," as she expressed it, she sometimes used great plainness of speech. At such times neither rank nor station counted. To clear her conscience was the supreme thing.

On the present occasion, however, Madeline got the first innings. She guessed from the set of Mrs. Tuke's lips that she did not altogether approve. Moreover, she was afraid that on the occasion of her first visit—when Mrs. Tuke revived her with burnt feathers—she had not made a very good impression.

Madeline came, therefore, fully armed and prepared to use all her wiles. She waited with a good deal of trepidation until Mrs. Tuke returned from her lodger's room.

"What a noble, generous soul you must be, Mrs. Tuke," she said, and she looked straight into the cold, blue eyes and smiled her sweetest.

Mrs. Tuke drew herself up and frowned.

"And how lovely you keep your house," Madeline went on, "and what taste you have shown in arranging your furniture."

Mrs. Tuke's face relaxed somewhat, and she gave the corner of the table cloth a little tug to straighten it.

"I think people stamp their character on everything they do, don't you, Mrs. Tuke? If a woman is a lady the house shows it. Look at these flowers how beautifully arranged they are," and Madeline bent down her head and sniffed at them.

"Some people never notice such things," Mrs. Tuke said, in an aggrieved tone.

"Oh, Mrs. Tuke! how can they help it; I am sure you would recognise taste and beauty anywhere."

"So many of the women hereabouts have no taste," Mrs. Tuke replied. "They keep their houses any fashion. I always say you can tell what a house is like by the window curtains. You need not put your head inside the door."

"I quite agree with you, Mrs. Tuke. May I ask where you send your curtains to be got up so beautifully?"

"I get 'em up myself."

"No?"

"I do, indeed," and Mrs. Tuke smiled upon her visitor most benignantly.

"How clever you must be. Do you know I think we should become quite fast friends? We seem to understand each other so well. Some people never understand each other. Now, if you were like some narrow, uncharitable people you would not approve of my calling to see Mr. Sterne."

Mrs. Tuke started, and took a sidelong glance out of the window.

"And I have no doubt," Madeline went on, "if some of the people in St. Gaved got to know that I was in the habit of calling here they would say all sorts of uncharitable things."

"I've not the least doubt of it," Mrs. Tuke said, severely.

"It is so nice to think you are not one of that sort," Madeline said, with a winning smile. "If I came here fifty times I know you would not talk about it. You see you understand people, Mrs. Tuke. And in America, as you know, girls have so much more freedom than they have in this country."

"So I've heard."

"It's natural, perhaps; they go to the same State schools together, and they grow up to respect each other. The girls learn self-reliance, and the boys chivalry."

"That sounds very nice," Mrs. Tuke remarked, with an interested look.

"It ought to be so everywhere. I don't think much of a girl who is not able to take care of herself."

"But men are not to be trusted, my dear," Mrs. Tuke said, with a pained expression in her eyes.

"Then they should be avoided and ostracised."

"Yes, I quite agree with you," Mrs. Tuke said, doubtfully; "but had you not better go and see Mr. Sterne now? Between ourselves, I believe he will be terribly impatient."

"And we'll renew our interesting conversation some other time."

"It's kind of you to want to talk to an old woman like me."

"You must not call yourself old, Mrs. Tuke," and Madeline tripped across the hall, and knocked timidly at the parlour door.

"Come in," called a clear, even voice, and Madeline turned the handle and entered. Her heart was beating considerably faster than usual, and directly she caught sight of Rufus a choking sensation came into her throat.

It was painfully pathetic to see this strong, handsome man lying pale and helpless on his narrow bed, and all because of her. If she had not been foolish and headstrong it would not have happened. And yet a great wave of gratitude surged over her heart at the same moment. His life had been spared. If he had been drowned she would never have forgiven herself to the day of her death.

He greeted her with a smile that was all brightness and sunshine. For the moment all the pain and disappointment and foreboding of the last week were forgotten. The presence of this beautiful girl was compensation for all he had endured.

"It is good of you to come," he said, in a tone that vibrated with unmistakable gratitude.

"No, please don't say that," she answered, a mist coming up before her eyes. "I was afraid you might hate the very sight of me."

He smiled at her for answer, and pointed to a chair.

"I've been wanting to see you for days," she went on; "wanting to ease my heart by telling you how grateful I am, and how terribly I regret causing you so much loss and suffering."

He smiled again. What answer could he make to such words of self-revealing? He would simply have to let her talk on until she gave him something to reply to.

"I told Dr. Pendarvis that I expected in secret you were heaping maledictions on my defenceless head."

"Have you so poor an opinion of me as all that?" he questioned, looking steadily into her sweet, brown eyes.

"Well, you see, I calculate I was judging you by myself somewhat."

"And if you had saved me, and slightly damaged yourself in the process, would you have been very angry with me?"

"Oh! I am only a girl, and if I were disabled for a year, nobody would be the loser. But with you it is different. I wish it had been the other way about."

"I don't."

"No?"

"No, I am glad things are as they are."

"But your invention is at a standstill."

"Who told you about my invention?"

"Dr. Pendarvis, I think. Oh no, it was Dr. Chester; he said you would be a great man some day."

"Dr. Chester will have to cultivate the habit of thinking before he speaks," he said, with a laugh, "If I can be a useful man, I shall be content."

"Is it better to be useful than to be great?" she questioned, naÏvely.

"Oh, well, that all depends, I expect, on the meaning you attach to words," he answered, with a broad smile. "If a man is truly great, he is, of course, useful, while a man may be very useful without being great."

"Oh, then, I shall back Dr. Chester," she said, with a pretty shrug of her shoulders.

"You had better not," he said, soberly. "Not that it will matter, of course. For whether I win or lose, you cannot be affected by the one or the other."

"Why not?"

"Oh, for fifty reasons."

"Please give me one."

"I would rather not."

"But I insist upon it."

"And if I still refuse?"

"I shall stay here till you do answer."

"Oh, that will be delightful," he answered, laughing. "How quickly the days will pass."

"Oh, Mr. Sterne, I did not know you could be so provoking," she said, with a little pout.

"Do you really want a reason?" he said, looking gravely into her eyes.

"Really and truly."

"Well, then, my invention will affect only the toilers—the poor people if you like. Its success or failure will not matter one whit to Sir Charles Tregony, for instance, and you belong to the same circle, do you not?"

"But its success or failure will matter to you, won't it?"

"It will matter everything to me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I say. Everything means everything. I've staked my all."

"Oh, no, you have not," she said, brightly. "You may have staked your fortune, and your reputation as an inventor, and your immediate prospects. But life is left."

He caught his breath sharply. "But what is life worth when all you have lived for is swept away?"

"And have you nothing else to live for?" she questioned, seriously.

"Nothing! I'm a lonely soul in a lonely world."

"But there is still life," she persisted. "And no great soul gives up at one failure or at ten."

He felt the hot blood rush to his face and he averted his eyes instinctively. He did his best to recover himself before she should notice, but her keen eyes were quick to see the look of pain and distress that swept over his face.

"Now I have said something foolish—something that has hurt you——" she began.

"My leg hurts me occasionally," he answered, with a poor attempt at a smile.

"I have been very thoughtless," she said, rising suddenly to her feet. "I did not think how I must be tiring you."

"But you have not tired me at all," he persisted. "You have done me good. You cannot think how intolerably irksome it is lying here helpless day after——" then he checked himself suddenly. It was his turn now to see a look of distress come into her eyes.

"And it is all my fault," she interrupted. "Oh, if I could only atone in some measure."

"You have atoned, if atonement were needed, by coming to see me. Will you not come again?"

"May I? Really and truly it would do me good if I could serve you in some way. I might read to you if you would let me, or write your letters."

He felt himself shaken as if with a tempest. He knew, as if by instinct, that he had reached the most fateful—perhaps the most perilous—crisis in his life. He had only to say the word and this beautiful girl would come and sit by his side day after day, come out of pure goodness and gratitude, never dreaming what her presence might mean to him.

He was only too painfully conscious that he was half in love with her already. She had touched his heart and imagination as no one had ever done before. From the time he caught that first glimpse of her face as she was driving from the station until now, she had been almost constantly in his thoughts. It was as though the fates—malicious as usual—had conspired to throw them together, for if he learned to love her, only misery and heart-ache could be the result. She would think of him only as someone she ought to be kind to. She was out of his circle. Whoever, or whatever she might have been in America, here she was the ward of Sir Charles Tregony, one of the proudest and most exclusive men in the county. Besides, for all he knew, she might be engaged already.

Beyond all, there was the fact that his life was at stake. If his project failed he was bound in honour to see that Felix Muller suffered no loss. The rights of the Life Assurance Company had not occurred to him even yet. There must be no human ties to make the struggle harder. If the worst came to the worst—a possibility that would persist in haunting him—he must go unmourned and unmourning into the darkness.

The brain works quickly in times of excitement and emotion, and all these considerations passed through his mind as in a flash. Should he tell this sweet-eyed girl that she must not come to see him again, and let her go away believing that he disapproved of her coming at all?

Better so. Better a few hours or days of sharp pain now than a life-long agony after.

"I must be brave," he said to himself. "The first lesson in life is self-conquest."

The form of words he decided to use shaped themselves quickly. The more explicit the better.

He turned his head toward her with resolutions full grown in his heart, and their eyes met again.