"After all," says Mrs. Le Marchant presently, rallying a little, her naturally buoyant temperament--that temperament which she has transmitted with such curious fidelity to her child, coming to her rescue; "after all, there is no reason why you should see him, Elizabeth. There is no reason why she should see him, is there, Mr. Burgoyne? It could serve no possible end--could it?--and only be exceedingly painful to them both. You will explain to him, will not you? You will take any message from her? You will tell him that she really is not up to it, will not you? It is quite true, I am sure. You are not, are you darling? She is not, is she?" The mother turns as she speaks eagerly from one to the other, addressing each in turn; but from neither does she obtain any answer. "Or I would speak to him myself; if you thought that better," continues she, still interrogating them with her handsome, careworn eyes. "I would say anything you wished said to him, and I would be careful to say it as kindly as possible. I am sure he would understand; he would see the sense, the justice of it, would not he? There is no need for her to expose herself to such useless suffering, is there, Mr. Burgoyne?"--appealing desperately to him by name, since he will not respond to any less direct address--"when either you or I are more than ready to shield her from it, are not we?" Thus apostrophized, Jim is compelled to break the silence, which seems to himself to wall him round like a petrifaction. It is to Elizabeth that he offers his hardly-won speech. "I think I need not tell you," he says gravely, and with passable steadiness, "that I would help you in any way I could." She stands a moment or two irresolute, her features all quivering as if with pain; and yet, underlying and under-shining the pain, something that is not pain. Then she puts out a hand impulsively to each. If the one that gives itself to Burgoyne had struck him on the mouth, instead of offering itself with affectionate confidence to his clasp, it could not have hurt him more than do those small fingers that lie in his, trembling with a passion that is not for him. "You are both very good to me," she says brokenly. "As to you, mammy, that is an old story. But I really believe that there is nothing disagreeable that you, too"--with a slight grateful pressure of the lifeless hand that so slackly keeps possession of hers--"would not do for me. But do not think me obstinate if I say that I think--I am sure--that it would be better--that it would hurt him less--if I spoke to him myself." "It is not a question of what will hurt him least," cries Mrs. Le Marchant, with an agony of impatience in her tone. "The thing to be considered is what will hurt _you_ least. Mr. Burgoyne, am I not right? Do tell her that I am! Ought not she to think of what will hurt her least?"