"Always come to me at once when you want money; and go to your aunt Kate when you want advice. She'll help you better than I can, my dear." "Thank you--thank you very much indeed. You are too good to me." She stooped down and kissed him on the forehead, pressing his hand in hers, and was gone before he could see her tears. Perhaps they would have gratified him. But he was amply rewarded by her kiss and the compliment paid him by his own conscience, which told him that he had not forced his niece's confidence, as he might have done, nor yet chuckled, as he might have done, over her fallen pride. It was a remarkable fulfilment of prophecy, too. When she got back to Devon Street, Vincent was asleep, with Mrs. Rogers watching over him, and Ted was waiting for her to come to lunch. He looked terribly depressed. She showed him her cheque in silence. "You never asked _him_, that stern old Puritan father?" "Don't, Ted. Yes, I did. I thought it would kill me; but it didn't. Oh, Ted, we _have_ done him an injustice. He was kindness itself. I had to tell him about Vincent, too, and he never said a word--only gave me the cheque, and said we weren't to pay it back." "H'm, that wasn't half bad of him, poor old thing." That admission meant a great deal from Ted. "There's a letter there for you,--from Knowles, I think." "What's he writing about?" She tore open the envelope. To her intense surprise she found a cheque for fifty guineas in it, and this note:-- "DEAR MISS HAVILAND,--Forgive my saying so, but when you want to sell your pictures, why don't you consult your friends instead of going to a thieving dealer? I found the Witch in the hands of such an one, and rescued her, for I won't say how little. As I could not possibly keep my ill-gotten gains on any other terms, please accept the enclosed, which with what you probably received will make up something like her real value. I need not tell you how delighted I am to possess so exquisite a specimen of your best work." "Ted, what am I to do? Send it back again?" "No, you little fool! Keep it, and never do _that_ again--for any one." For any one? What was there that she would not do for Vincent? But Ted, having said that, looked more depressed than ever. He went to the fireplace, and leaned against the chimneypiece, shading his face with his hand. "What is it, Ted?" He made no answer. A terrible fear clutched at her heart, and he saw it in her eyes. "He's all right now; he's sleeping. But----" "But _what_? Tell me, Ted." "Well, Crashawe was here this morning, and he says he isn't really better." "But he _is_ better. He said so himself when he examined him yesterday." "Yes, so he is, in a way. That is, you see, his lungs are all right. It's his heart that's bad now. Crashawe says it must always have been more or less weak. And now----" He stopped short. "Ted----" she implored. "It may stop beating any minute."