“I declare I think I will speak to him. It is my duty to speak to him,” said the old lady, in her own fussy, officious tone. “I will not expose myself to the reproaches of his family--very just reproaches, too, if they imagined we had detained him. He will lose, not only his passage out to India, but, not impossibly, his appointment too. “Joseph, Joseph, I have a word to say to you.” “Dearest aunt, I implore you not to say it,” cried Emily. “Nonsense, child. Is it for a mere tiff and a fit of hysterics a man is to lose his livelihood? Joseph Loyd, come into the next room for a moment.” “I cannot leave this,” said he, in a low, faint voice: “say what you have to say to me here.” “It is on the stroke of seven.” He nodded. “The train leaves a quarter before eight, and if you don’t start by this one you can’t reach Leghorn by Tuesday.” “I know it; I’m not going.” “Do you mean to give up your appointment?” asked she, in a voice of almost scornful reproach. “I mean, that I’ll not go.” “What will your friends say to this?” said she, angrily. “I have not thought, nor can I think, of that now: my place is here.” “Then I must protest; and I beg you to remember that I have protested against this resolve on your part. Your family are not to say, hereafter, that it was through any interference or influence of ours that you took this unhappy determination. I’ll write, this very day, to your father and say so. There, it is striking seven now!” He made no reply; indeed, it seemed as if he had not heard her. “You might still be in time, if you were to exert yourself.” whispered she, with more earnestness. “I tell you again,” said he, raising his voice to a louder pitch, “that my place is here, and I will not leave her.” A low, faint sigh was breathed by the sick girl, and gently moving her hand, she laid it on his head. “You know me then, dearest?” whispered he. “You know who it is kneels beside you?” She made no answer, but her feeble fingers tried to play with his hair, and strayed, unguided, over his head. What shape of reproach, remonstrance, or protest, Miss Grainger’s mutterings took, is not recorded; but she bustled out of the room, evidently displeased with all in it. “She knows you, Joseph. She is trying to thank you,” said Emily. “Her lips are moving: can you hear what she says, Milly?” The girl bent over the bed, till her ear almost touched her sister’s mouth. “Yes, darling, from his heart he does. He never loved you with such devotion as now. She asks if you can forgive her, Joseph. She remembers everything.” “And not leave me,” sighed Florence, in a voice barely audible. “No, my own dearest, I will not leave you,” was all that he could utter in the conflict of joy and sorrow he felt A weak attempt to thank him she made by an effort to press his hand, but it sent a thrill of delight through his heart, more than a recompense for all he had suffered.