This thought which fastened upon my mind so tenaciously allowed me but little rest. I tried to rid myself of it, tried to scorn such an idea, tried to reason with myself how plain it was that she actually held me in some esteem, and if so she would certainly not seek to take my life in that cowardly, dastardly manner. Sometimes I felt that I misjudged her; at others grave suspicions haunted me. Yet withal my love for her never once wavered. She was my idol. Through those long, weary hours of prostration and convalescence I thought always of her--always. I had written her a short note, saying that I was unwell and unable to go down to Riverdene, not, however, mentioning the cause of my illness, and in response there came in return a charmingly-worded little letter, expressing profound regret and hoping we should meet again very soon. A hundred times I read that note. Was the thin, delicate hand that penned it the same that had endeavoured to take my life? That was the sole question uppermost in my mind; a problem which racked my brain day by day, nay, hour by hour. But there was no solution. Thus was I compelled to exist in torturing suspicion, anxiety and uncertainty. One hot afternoon I had risen for the first time, and was sitting among pillows in the armchair reading some magazines which Dick had thoughtfully brought me during the luncheon hour, when a timid knock sounded at the door. The Hag had left me to attend upon her other "young gentlemen" in the Temple, and I was alone. Therefore I rose and answered the summons, finding to my surprise that my visitor was Lily Lowry. At once, at my invitation, she entered, a slim figure dressed in neat, if cheap, black, without any attempt at being fashionable, but with that primness and severity expected of lady's-maids and shop-assistants. Her gloves were neat, her hat suited her well, and beneath her veil I saw a pretty face, pale, interesting and anxious-looking. "I didn't expect to find any one in, except Mrs. Joad," she said apologetically, as she took the chair I offered. Then, noticing my pillows, and perhaps the paleness of my countenance, she asked. "What? You are surely not ill, Mr. Urwin?" "Yes," I answered. "I've been rather queer for a week past. The heat, or something of that sort, I suppose. Nothing at all serious." "I'm so glad of that," she said. "I only called because I was passing. I've been matching some silk at the wholesale houses in the City, and as I wanted to give Mr. Cleugh a message I thought I'd leave it with Mrs. Joad." "A message?" I repeated. "Can I give it?" She hesitated, and I saw that a slight blush suffused her cheeks. "No," she faltered. "You're very kind, but perhaps, after all, it would be better to write to him." "As you like," I said, smiling. "You don't, of course, care to trust your secrets in my keeping--eh?" She looked at me seriously for a moment, her lips quivered, and she drew a long breath.