“To London, and try to find another situation where I can do no harm.” “Will it be difficult to find another home?” “Yes. I cannot ask Mrs. Coventry to recommend me, when I have innocently brought so much trouble into her family; and Lady Sydney is gone, so I have no friend.” “Except John Coventry. I will arrange all that. When will you go, Jean?” “Tomorrow.” “So soon!” And the old man’s voice betrayed the trouble he was trying to conceal. Jean had grown very calm, but it was the calmness of desperation. She had hoped that the first tears would produce the avowal for which she waited. It had not, and she began to fear that her last chance was slipping from her. Did the old man love her? If so, why did he not speak? Eager to profit by each moment, she was on the alert for any hopeful hint, any propitious word, look, or act, and every nerve was strung to the utmost. “Jean, may I ask one question?” said Sir John. “Anything of me, sir.” “This man whom you love--can he not help you?” “He could if he knew, but he must not.” “If he knew what? Your present trouble?” “No. My love.” “He does not know this, then?” “No, thank heaven! And he never will.” “Why not?” “Because I am too proud to own it.” “He loves you, my child?” “I do not know--I dare not hope it,” murmured Jean. “Can I not help you here? Believe me, I desire to see you safe and happy. Is there nothing I can do?” “Nothing, nothing.” “May I know the name?” “No! No! Let me go; I cannot bear this questioning!” And Jean’s distressful face warned him to ask no more. “Forgive me, and let me do what I may. Rest here quietly. I’ll write a letter to a good friend of mine, who will find you a home, if you leave us.” As Sir John passed into his inner study, Jean watched him with despairing eyes and wrung her hands, saying to herself, Has all my skill deserted me when I need it most? How can I make him understand, yet not overstep the bounds of maiden modesty? He is so blind, so timid, or so dull he will not see, and time is going fast. What shall I do to open his eyes?