‘It would be a short cut out of all my difficulties if I were to come to grief somewhere between this and the Manor House,’ thought Churchill. ‘A sudden fall upon a heap of stones, a splintered skull, an inquest, and all over. Poor Madge! It would be bad for her, but a relief perhaps—who can tell? She has owned that her life has been bitterness since that fatal day! Her very love for me is a kind of martyrdom. Poor Madge! If it was not a cowardly thing to give up all at the first alarm, I very believe I could bring myself to turn my back upon Penwyn Manor, take my wife and child out to Sydney, and try my luck as a barrister in a colonial court. For her sake—for her sake! Would not the humblest life be happiness with her?’ Things seemed to take a new shape to him during that swift homeward drive. He passed the shadowy plantations—the trees of his planting—bowled smoothly along the well-made road that crossed his own estate, and thought with a curious wonder, how little actual happiness his possessions had given him—how small a matter it would be, after all, to lose them. The lighted windows of the north lodge shone out upon him as he mounted the crest of the last hill, and saw Manor House and gardens, pine groves and shrubberies, before him. ‘Rebecca is keeping later hours than usual, isn’t she?’ he asked. ‘She’s very ill, sir, at death’s door, they do say,’ answered the groom, ‘but that queer young granddaughter of hers has kept it dark, as long as she could, on account of the drink being at the bottom of it, begging your pardon sir.’ ‘Do you mean that Rebecca drinks?’ ‘Well, yes, sir, on the quiet; I believe she have always been inclined that way. Excuse me for mentioning it, sir, but you see a master is always the last to hear of these things.’ They were at the gates by this time. Elspeth came out of the lodge as they drove up. ‘Take the dog-cart round to the stables, Hunter,’ said Churchill, alighting. ‘I am going in to see Rebecca.’ ‘Oh, sir, your dear lady is here—with grandmother,’ said Elspeth. ‘My wife?’ ‘Yes, sir. She came down this afternoon, hearing grandmother was so bad. And Mrs. Penwyn wouldn’t have any one else to nurse her, though she’s been raving and going on awful.’ Churchill answered not a word, but snatched the candle from the girl’s hand, and went up the narrow staircase. A wild, hoarse scream told him where the sick woman was lying. He opened the door, and there, in a close room, whose fever-tainted atmosphere seemed stifling and poisonous after the fresh night air, he saw his wife kneeling by a narrow iron bedstead, holding the gipsy’s bony frame in her arms. He flung open the casement as wide as it would go. The cold night breeze rushed into the little room, almost extinguishing the candle. ‘Madge! are you mad? Do you know the danger of being in this fever-poisoned room?’