“Nonsense, Alice,” her uncle said, testily. “The old man’s daughter was missing, and he came to me after seeing what he certainly thought was her body. Fortunately, it was not. That misery is off our minds anyhow. I am quite ready to forgive Frank—in fact, I have forgiven him, and I really do not see any use in making any more inquiries into the matter.” “I am very glad and very thankful too, uncle; but my point of view in the matter naturally differs somewhat from yours. Besides, uncle, I really want to see this unfortunate young woman.” Captain Bradshaw looked intensely surprised. “Yes, uncle, I want to see her for James’s sake. Poor boy! I fear, uncle, he cannot last very much longer, and I am sure it would make him very happy if he could have her to nurse him, and be with him to the end.” “But, my dear Alice, do you remember——?” “My dear uncle,” Alice said, gently, “I only remember how terribly she must have suffered. We are going to forgive Frank, and to take him back again; is it for us to throw this poor girl’s fault in her face?” “My dear,” her uncle said, kissing her, “I beg your pardon. You are a dear good girl, and I am an old fool.” At nine o’clock, Alice Heathcote, attended by a footman, went down to the library. The shop was closed, but the door was opened by Mr. Walker. “She is in the parlour, ma’am, and please,” he said, nervously, “please don’t speak harshly to her, she has suffered so much.” Telling the servant to wait outside, Alice went in. Mr. Walker remained in the shop, in which the gas was still burning, while Alice went through into the parlour beyond. Carry was sitting at the table, but rose as she entered. Carry had changed very much from the merry-faced girl, who, three years before, used to stand behind the counter in New Street. She was not yet twenty-one, but she had a look of quiet womanly sorrow on her face, which made her look years older. The golden tresses were hidden now beneath a plain widow’s cap. Her dress was entirely black, which set off the extreme paleness of her complexion. In manner she was quiet and almost dignified, and was still very pretty, but of an entirely different expression from the prettiness of old. She bowed gravely to Alice, and apparently waited for her to speak. “My name,” Alice began, “is Miss Heathcote. I am ward to Captain Bradshaw of Lowndes Square.” Carry paled a little at the name. “The gentleman you saw at the door in the invalid chair, whom you knew at Mr. Holl’s, has turned out to be Captain Bradshaw’s grandson. He is dying, I fear he cannot live more than a month or two longer, and one of my objects in coming to-night was to ask you to come and nurse him.” Carry gave a start of surprise,—“Me!” “Yes,” Alice said, gently, “he has always loved you, and it would be a great satisfaction to him to have you near him. You will be received as a friend by all. Will you come?” Carry hesitated, and then the blood rushed into her face. “But do you know——?”