He put her hand within his arm. "First, tell me where you are going." "To Mr. Dana's." "For what purpose?" "I have something to tell Charley." "I will be the bearer of your message. Let me see you home;--you shall give it to me on the way." She obeyed submissively as a child. "Now!" said he, as they turned back. "I had a note from Lynn to-night. It is worded so ambiguously,--contains so many allusions I do not understand, that I can glean but this--he has quarrelled, and been challenged;--they fight to-morrow, where or when I do not know, nor the name of his opponent. It is all a horrible mystery." It was more clear to him. He related the incident of the altercation at supper, suppressing Pemberton's use of her name. "Oh! can it be! he will not stoop so low! And he will die! he declares his solemn determination not to resist the attack. His life is thrown away!" "Not if man can prevent it--I promise you this much. When did you get this letter?" "Not an hour since." "Why did you not send to Charley or me?" "Mr. Read is away, and John sick." "What is the tone of the note? revengeful?" "Oh, no! he says expressly--'If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil.' He writes, weary of life, and relieved at the thought of getting rid of it." "'Getting rid' of the life God has bestowed!" repeated he, indignantly. "Forgive me, Ida! yet _you_ cannot tolerate this sentiment! Does he believe in an hereafter? Does he allude to it?" "No--but he does believe--I have thought, sometimes, with more than the intellect. Do not judge him hardly;--he has suffered much of late; more from morbid sensibility than actual troubles, but he imagined his woes too heavy to be borne. He is not fit to cope with sorrow." "None of us are, 'till we have been taught the uses of affliction. This recklessness is, you think, more an impulse than a purpose?" "I am sure of it." "He will be more manageable then," he replied encouragingly. The wind blew roughly, and he folded her cloak around her. "I recognised you by this, and your walk, and fearing lest you might encounter rudeness in your nocturnal ramble, kept you in sight. I heard your voice at the watchman's challenge, and concluded to declare myself your protector. I have been sitting with a sick friend." Ida did not know herself when they stopped at the door--her uneasiness all gone, and with it the unnatural strength that impelled her venturesome step--he had assumed the burden; and he was so strong and sanguine, it did not oppress him. With the mild authority which had checked her tears and reversed her design, he bade her "dismiss anxiety, and rest quietly until morning, when he would send her glad tidings." And with the same childlike docility she repaired to her chamber, and betook herself to slumber. CHAPTER XVI.