She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what the world calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good. Her husband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away and separated from her by the law--he was alive, and now was brought face to face with her again. While he was living, she did not suppose it possible to love another, for she was very simple. She said to herself truly that she had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friend she had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible of imaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even half unconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him. There was no harm in that, she knew very well. She owed her own husband no longer either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity for him. Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it, and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friendship, she would have called herself the most ungrateful of women. If ever man deserved respect, esteem and friendship, it was the squire. Even in the present anxiety she thought of him, for his conduct seemed the only bright spot in the gloom of her thoughts; and she sincerely rejoiced that he had escaped unhurt. Had any harm come to him, she would have been, if it were possible, more miserable than she now was. But he was safe and sound, and doing his best to help her--doing more than she knew, in fact, at that very moment. There was at least something to be thankful for. Goddard stirred again, and opened his eyes. "Mary," he said faintly, "they won't catch me after all." "No, Walter," said she, humouring him. "Sleep quietly, for no one will disturb you." "I am going where nobody can catch me. I am dying--" "Oh, Walter!" cried Mary Goddard, "you must not speak like that. You will be better soon. The doctor is expected every moment." "He had better make haste," said the sick man with something of the roughness he had shown at their first meetings. "It is no use, Mary. I have been thinking about it. I have been mad for--for very long, I am sure. I want to die, Mary. Nobody can catch me if I die--I shall be safe then. You will be safe too--that is a great thing." His voice had a strange and meditative tone in it, which frightened his wife, as she stood close beside him. She could not speak, for her excitement and fear had the mastery of her tongue. "I have been thinking about it--I am not good for much, now--Mary--I never was. It will do some good if I die--just because I shall be out of the way. It will be the only good thing I ever did for you." "Oh Walter," cried his wife in genuine distress, "don't--don't! Think--you must not die so--think of--of the other world, Walter--you must not die so!" Goddard smiled faintly--scornfully, his wife thought.