He went to the child's cot, and stood a moment looking at him. He was not yet recovered from the night's awful struggle, but he opened his eyes and stretched upward his arms, and Robert could not resist the silent appeal. Thank God, O thank God, he stooped and kissed him, and felt the little arms around his neck in a way that amazed him! Then he looked at Theodora and lifted his valise. The carriage was at the door, his mother was hurrying him, he said: "Good-bye, Dora. I will telegraph you about Crewe." "Thank you, Robert. Please say so before mother, or she may try to prevent my going." Her eyes were fixed on him. There was a piteous entreaty in them--would he not kiss and embrace her also? Oh, if he knew it was the last time! If he only knew it! The thought was full of passionate longing. He could not but feel it. He was just going to take her hand, when Mrs. Campbell opened the door and said fretfully: "You will miss your train, Robert--delaying and delaying for nothing at all." "I was telling Dora to go home on Friday, and see her parents for twelve days or more. I will meet her at Crewe, and we shall come home together." "Very well. I'll be gey and thankful to have the house to ourselves for a few days--or forever." Robert was hastening to the carriage and did not hear her reply, but when it was about to move, he bent forward and looked at the door he was leaving. Theodora stood on the steps. Her heart was in her eyes, her hands clasped above her breast. She saw him bend forward, and leaned towards him smiling. Never throughout all his life days did he forget that last glimpse of the beautiful woman who that morning watched him out of her sight. When he was quite gone she turned into the house with that sense of completeness so essential even to the sorrowful. She had seen the last of her husband. The bitterness of the separation was over. She went to Davie and let him comfort her, then she dressed the boy, and left him in the care of McNab; for she knew that she must go to Mrs. Oliphant's without delay. The door had been set wide open for them, and they must make the best of the opportunity; or perhaps lose their lucky hour forever. Fortunately David Campbell was at Mrs. Oliphant's, having returned from Edinburgh not ten minutes previously. He heard Theodora's tidings with a calm pleasure. "We are ready," he said. "Your father and mother have been in Glasgow for a week. They are boarding at a house in Monteith Row, a pretty locality on Glasgow Green." "Oh, David, were you not afraid?" "Not at all," he answered, "the Campbells are exclusive West-Enders. They would be as likely to go near Monteith Row as to go to Ashantee. Your parents are known as Mr. and Mrs. Bell. You must not try to see them until you meet on the steamer." "Very well. When shall we sail?" "This is Tuesday. The Anchor Line have a good boat sailing at noon, Saturday. Can you be ready?" "Easily. About your daughters?"