A hotel is a hotel all the world over, a place essentially vulgar, commonplace, venal, the travesty of a human home. This one, however, was as stately as it could be, with a certain size about the building, big stairs, big rooms, at the end of one of which he found his patroness lying, in an elaborate dressing-gown, on a large sofa, with the vague figure of a maid floating about in the semi-darkness. The London sun in April is not generally violent; but all the blinds were down, the curtains half drawn over the windows, and the room so deeply shadowed that even young Gordon’s sharp eyes coming out of the keen daylight did not preserve him from knocking against one piece of furniture after another as he made his way to the patient’s side. “Well, Harry dear, is she coming?” a faint voice said. “I hope so, aunt. She was sorry to know you were ill. I told her you were quite used to being ill, and always patient over it. Are things going any better to-day?” “They will never be better, Harry.” “Don’t say that. They have been worse a great many times, and then things have always come round a little.” “He doesn’t believe me, Miller. That is what comes of health like mine; nobody will believe that I am worse now than I have ever been before.” Gordon patted the thin hand that lay on the bed. He had heard these words _many_ times, and he was not alarmed by them. “This lady is rather a character,” he said; “she will amuse you. She is Scotch, and she is rather strong-minded, and----” “I never could bear strong-minded women,” cried the patient with some energy. “But what do I care whether she is Scotch or Spanish, or what she is? Besides that, she has helped me already, and all I want is Dora. Oh, Harry, did you see Dora?--my Dora, my little girl! And so tall, and so well grown, and so sweet! And to think that I cannot have her, cannot see her, now that I am going to die!” “Why shouldn’t you have her?” he said in his calm voice. “Her father is better; and no man, however unreasonable, would prevent her coming to see her own relation. You don’t understand, dear aunt. You won’t believe that people are all very like each other, not so cruel and hard-hearted as you suppose. You would not be unkind to a sick person, why should he?” “Oh, it’s different--very different!” the sick woman said. “Why should it be different? A quarrel that is a dozen years old could never be so bitter as that.” “It is you who don’t understand. I did him harm--oh, such harm! Never, never could he forgive me! I never want him to hear my name. And to ask Dora from him--oh no, no! Don’t do it, Harry--not if I was at my last breath!” “If you ever did him harm as you say--though I don’t believe you ever did any one harm--that is why you cannot forgive him. Aunt, you may be sure he has forgiven you.” “I--I--forgive? Oh, never, never had I anything to forgive--never! I--oh if you only knew!”