John North did not see why he merited reward, neither could he follow what she was talking about. It might be, he supposed, one of the hallucinations that sometimes attend the dying. "I'll take every care of Ellen Adair: she shall come to the Hall and stay there," he said, for that he could understand, "I promise it faithfully, Fanny." "Then that is one of the weights off my mind," murmured the dying woman. "There were so many on it. I have left a document, John, naming you and Richard her guardians for the time being. She's of good family, and very precious to her father. There has been so short a time to act in: it was only three or four days ago that I knew the end was coming. I did not expect it would be quite so soon." "It mostly come when it's not expected," murmured poor John North: "many of us seem to be going very near together. Edmund first; then Bessy; now you, Fanny: and the next will be me. God in His mercy grant that we may all meet in a happier world, and be together for ever!" Richard North had remained below in the dining-room with Ellen Adair. The heavy crimson curtains were drawn before the large garden window, a bright fire blazed in the grate. Ellen in her black dress, worn for Bessy, sat in the warmth: she felt very chilly after her journey, was nervous at the turn the illness seemed to be taking; and every now and then a tear stole silently down her sweet face. Richard walked about a little as he glanced at her. He thought her looking, apart from the present sorrow, pale and ill. Richard North was deliberating whether to say a word or two upon a matter that puzzled him. He thought he would do so. "I have been across the Channel, you know, Ellen, since you left for Eastsea," he began. He had grown sufficiently intimate at Mrs. Cumberland's since his enforced term of idleness, to drop the formal "Miss Adair" for her Christian name. "Yes, we heard of it. You went to engage workmen, did you not?" "For one thing. When I returned home, I found a letter or two awaiting me from Arthur Bohun, who was then at Eastsea. Madam had opened one of them." Ellen looked up, and then looked down again immediately. Richard North saw a change pass over her face, as though she were startled. "I could not quite understand the letters; I think Arthur intended me not to fully understand them. They spoke of some--some event that was coming off, at which he wished me to be present." Ellen saw that he did understand: at least, that he believed he did. She rose from her seat and went close to him, speaking in agitation. "Will you grant me a request, Richard? I know you can be a firm friend; you are very true. Do not ever think of it again--do not speak of it to living man or woman." "I presume it did _not_ take place, Ellen." "No. And the sooner it is altogether forgotten, the better." He took her hand between his, and drew her to the fire. They stood before it side by side.