Thus, in her panic, the poor girl wildly called for help and comfort, until at last the carriage turned a curve in the road at which stood a shadowy clump of elms, and in another moment the driver pulled up under the sign of the "Royal Oak." "Oh, Louisa! Here it is," cried the young lady, holding her maid's wrist with a trembling grasp. The inn-door was shut, but there was light in the hall, and light in an upper room. "Don't knock--only ring the bell. He may be asleep, God grant!" said the young lady. The door was quickly opened, and a waiter ran down to the carriage window, where he saw a pair of large wild eyes, and a very pale face, and heard the question--"An old gentlemen has been ill here, and a telegram was sent; is he--how is he?" "He's better, Ma'am," said the man. With a low, long "O--Oh!" and clasped hands and upturned eyes, she leaned back in the carriage, and a sudden flood of tears relieved her. Yes; he was a great deal better. The attack was quite over; but he had not spoken. He seemed much exhausted; and having swallowed some claret, which the doctor prescribed, he had sunk into a sound and healthy sleep, in which he still lay. A message by telegraph had been sent to announce the good news, but Alice was some way on her journey before it had reached. Now the young lady got down, and entered the homely old inn, followed by her maid. She could have dropped on her knees in gratitude to her Maker; but true religion, like true affection, is shy of demonstrating its fervours where sympathy is doubtful. Gently, hardly breathing, guided by the "chambermaid," she entered her father's room, and stood at his bedside. There he lay, yellow, lean, the lines of his face in repose still forbidding, the thin lips and thin nose looking almost transparent, and breathing deeply and regularly, as a child in his slumbers. In that face Alice could not discover what any stranger would have seen. She only saw the face of her father. Selfish and capricious as he was, and violent too--a wicked old man, if one could see him justly--he was yet proud of her, and had many schemes and projects afloat in his jaded old brain, of which her beauty was the talisman, of which she suspected nothing, and with which his head was never more busy than at the very moment when he was surprised by the _aura_ of his coming fit. The doctor's conjecture was right. He had crossed the Channel that morning. In his French _coupée_, he had for companion the very man he had most wished and contrived to travel homeward with. This was Lord Wynderbroke.