The old man was silent. Evidently he thought I might interfere if I pleased. I could see what he was thinking. Possibly his daughter had told him something more than he chose to communicate to me. I could not help suspecting the mode in which he judged I might interfere. But I could see no likelihood before me but that of confusion and precipitation. In a word, I had not a plain path to follow. “Old Rogers,” I said, “I can almost guess what you mean. But I am in more difficulty with regard to what you suggest than I can easily explain to you. I need not tell you, however, that I will turn the whole matter over in my mind.” “The prey ought to be taken from the lion somehow, if it please God,” returned the old man solemnly. “The poor young lady keeps up as well as she can before her mother; but Jane do say there’s a power o’ crying done in her own room.” Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden resolve to do something, if anything could be done, I said:— “I will call on Mr Stoddart this evening. I may hear something from him to suggest a mode of action.” “I don’t think you’ll get anything worth while from Mr Stoddart. He takes things a deal too easy like. He’ll be this man’s man and that man’s man both at oncet. I beg your pardon, sir. But HE won’t help us.” “That’s all I can think of at present, though,” I said; whereupon the man-of-war’s man, with true breeding, rose at once, and took a kindly leave. I was in the storm again. She suffering, resisting, and I standing aloof! But what could I do? She had repelled me—she would repel me. Were I to dare to speak, and so be refused, the separation would be final. She had said that the day might come when she would ask help from me: she had made no movement towards the request. I would gladly die to serve her—yea, more gladly far than live, if that service was to separate us. But what to do I could not see. Still, just to do something, even if a useless something, I would go and see Mr Stoddart that evening. I was sure to find him alone, for he never dined with the family, and I might possibly catch a glimpse of Miss Oldcastle. I found little Gerard so much better, though very weak, and his mother so quiet, notwithstanding great feverishness, that I might safely leave them to the care of Mary, who had quite recovered from her attack, and her brother Tom. So there was something off my mind for the present. The heavens were glorious with stars,—Arcturus and his host, the Pleiades, Orion, and all those worlds that shine out when ours is dark; but I did not care for them. Let them shine: they could not shine into me. I tried with feeble effort to lift my eyes to Him who is above the stars, and yet holds the sea, yea, the sea of human thought and trouble, in the hollow of His hand. How much sustaining, although no conscious comforting, I got from that region “Where all men’s prayers to Thee raised Return possessed of what they pray Thee.”