“She, herself, does--she did, at least, so long as reason remained to her; but now, poor darling, her mind is wandering, and she is not conscious of what she says, and yet her cry is, ‘Oh, Joseph, do not leave me.’ Go to him, Milly; on your knees beseech him not to desert me. That I am in fault I know, but I will never again offend him.’ I cannot, I will not, tell you all the dreadful--all the humiliating things she says; but through all we can read the terrible trials she must have sustained at your hands, and how severely you have used her. Come to her, at least,” cried she, taking his arm. “I do not ask or want to know what has led to this sad scene between you; but come to her before it be too late.” “Let me first of all tell you, Milly---” He stopped. He meant to have revealed the truth; but it seemed so ungenerous to be the accuser, that he stopped, and was silent. “I don’t care to hear anything. You may be as blameless as you like. What I want is to save her. Come at once.” Without a word he followed her down the stairs, and across the hall, and up another small stair. “Wait a moment,” said she, opening the door, and then as quickly she turned and beckoned him to enter. Still dressed, but with her hair falling loose about her, and her dress disordered, Florence lay on her bed as in a trance--so light her breathing you could see no motion of the chest Her eyes were partly opened, and lips parted: but even these gave to her face a greater look of death. “She is sleeping at last,” whispered Miss Grainger. “She has not spoken since you were here.” Loyd knelt down; beside: the bed, and pressed his cheek against her cold hand; and the day dawn, as it streamed in between the shutters, saw him still there. CHAPTER XVII. PARTING SORROWS. HOUR after hour Loyd knelt beside the bed where Florence lay, motionless and unconscious. Her aunt and sister glided noiselessly about, passed in and out of the room, rarely speaking, and then but in a whisper. At last a servant whispered in Loyd’s ear a message. He started and said, “Yes, let him wait;” and then, in a moment after, added, “No, say no. I’ll not want the boat--the luggage may be taken back to my room.” It was a few minutes after this that Emily came behind him, and, bending down so as to speak in his ear, said, “How I thank you, my dear brother, for this! I know the price of your devotion--none of us will ever forget it.” He made no answer, but pressed the cold damp hand he held to his lips. “Does he know that it is nigh seven o’clock, Milly, and that he must be at Como a quarter before eight, or he’ll lose the train?” said Miss Grainger to her niece. “He knows it all, aunt; he has sent away the boat; he will not desert us.” “Remember, child, what it is he is sacrificing. It may chance to be his whole future fortune.” “He’ll stay, let it cost what it may,” said Emily.