So, as she drove slowly past, Francis watched her; I felt more than glad--proud that he should see the face which he had known blooming and young, and which would never be either the one or the other again in this world, and that he should see how peaceful and good it was. "She is altered strangely." I asked, in momentary fear, did he think her looking out of health? "Oh no--It is not that. I hardly know what it is;" then, as with a sudden impulse, "I must go and speak to Penelope." And before I could hinder him, he was at the carriage side. No fear of a "scene." They met--oh Max, can any two people so meet who have been lovers for ten years! It might have been that the emotion of the last few minutes left her in that state when no occurrence seemed unexpected or strange--but Penelope, when she saw him, only gave a slight start;--and then looked at him, straight in the face, for a minute or so. "I am sorry to see that you have been ill." That one sentence must have struck him, as it did me, with the full conviction of how they met--as Penelope and Francis no more--merely Miss Johnston and Mr. Charteris. "I have been ill," he said, at last. "Almost at death's door. I should have died, but for Doctor Urquhart and--one other person, whose name I discovered by accident. I beg to thank her for her charity." He blushed scarlet in pronouncing the word. My sister tried to speak, but he stopped her. "Needless to deny." "I never deny what is true," said Penelope gravely. "I only did what I considered right, and what I would have done for any person whom I had known so many years. Nor would I have done it at all, but that your uncle refused." "I had rather owe it to you--twenty times over!" he cried. "Nay--you shall not be annoyed with gratitude--I came but to own my debt--to say, if I live, I will repay it; if I die--" She looked keenly at him:--"You will not die." "Why not? What have I to live for--a ruined, disappointed, disgraced man? No, no--my chance is over for this world, and I do not care how soon I get out of it." "I would rather hear of your living worthily in it." "Too late, too late." "Indeed it is not too late." Penelope's voice was very earnest, and had a slight falter that startled even me. No wonder it misled Francis,--he who never had a particularly low opinion of himself, and who for so many years had been fully aware of a fact--which, I once heard Max say, ought always to make a man humble rather than vain--how deeply a fond woman had loved him. "How do you mean?" he asked eagerly. "That you have no cause for all this despair. You are a young man still; your health may improve; you are free from debt, and have enough to live upon. Whatever disagreeables your position has, it is a beginning--you may rise. A long and prosperous career may lie before you yet--I hope so." "Do you?"