Wyverne waited in the huge gloomy hall, with scarcely more consciousness or volition left than a sleep-walker owns. He allowed a servant to remove his drenched overcoat, and thanked the man, mechanically; but he never knew how or when he had taken it off. Beauclere soon returned and led the way through several passages into a long corridor; at the further end of this, light gleamed through a half-open door. Algy did not attempt to enter, but motioned Alan silently to go in. It was a large, dim room, magnificently furnished after an antique fashion, and Grace Beauclere was sitting there alone. She looked wan and worn with grief, and she trembled all over as she locked her arms round Alan's neck, holding him for a second or two closely embraced, and whispering a warning in his ear. "You must be very quiet and cautious. She has hardly strength enough left to speak. Call me if you see any great change, I shall be here. The doctors and nurses are close by; but she would not allow any one to remain when she guessed you had come. She caught the sound of hoofs before any of us heard it." She pointed to where a heavy curtain concealed an open doorway opposite. The gesture was not needed. Wyverne knew very well that in the next chamber Helen lay dying. His brain was clear enough now, and he was self-possessed, as men are wont to be when they have done with hope, and have nothing worse to fear than what the next moment will bring. He walked forward without pausing, and lifted the curtain gently, but with a steady hand. The entrance nearly fronted the huge old-fashioned couch, shadowed by a canopy and hangings of dark-green velvet, on which the Countess lay. Her cheeks had scarcely more colour than the snowy linen and lace of the pillows which supported her, and, till just now, it seemed as though her heavy eyelids would never be lifted again. But, at the sound of Alan's footfall, the eyes opened, large and bright, and the face lost the impress of Death, as it lighted and flushed, momentarily, with the keen joy of recognition and welcome. He was kneeling, with his head bowed down on Helen's hand, that he held fast, when the first words were spoken. "I felt sure you would come," she murmured. "I have been so still, and patient, and obedient--only that I might live long enough for _this_. I heard you, when you rode up, through all the wind and the rain. I am so glad--so glad. I can die easily now. I could never have rested in my grave if we had not said--'Good-bye.'" Wyverne tried twice to speak steadily, but there came only a miserable, broken moan. "Ah! forgive--forgive! God knows, I thought I was right in keeping away. I did it for the best." The thin, transparent fingers of the hand that was free wandered over his brow, and twined themselves in his drenched hair, with a fond, delicate caress.