“I had a letter about him from Derrick only this evening,” I replied; “if you care to see it, I will show it you later on.” And by-and-by, in the drawing-room, I put Derrick’s letter into her hands, and explained to her how for a few months he had given up his life at Bath, in despair, but now had returned. “I don’t think Lawrence can understand the state of things,” she said wistfully. “And yet he has been down there.” I made no reply, and Freda, with a sigh, turned away. A month later I went down to Bath and found, as my friend foretold, everything going on in the old groove, except that Derrick himself had an odd, strained look about him, as if he were fighting a foe beyond his strength. Freda’s arrival at Bath had been very hard on him, it was almost more than he could endure. Sir Richard, blind as a bat, of course, to anything below the surface, made a point of seeing something of Lawrence’s brother. And on the day of my arrival Derrick and I had hardly set out for a walk, when we ran across the old man. Sir Richard, though rheumatic in the wrists, was nimble of foot and an inveterate walker. He was going with his daughter to see over Beckford’s Tower, and invited us to accompany him. Derrick, much against the grain, I fancy, had to talk to Freda, who, in her winter furs and close-fitting velvet hat, looked more fascinating than ever, while the old man descanted to me on Bath waters, antiquities, etc., in a long-winded way that lasted all up the hill. We made our way into the cemetery and mounted the tower stairs, thinking of the past when this dreary place had been so gorgeously furnished. Here Derrick contrived to get ahead with Sir Richard, and Freda lingered in a sort of alcove with me. “I have been so wanting to see you,” she said, in an agitated voice. “Oh, Mr. Wharncliffe, is it true what I have heard about the Major? Does he drink?” “Who told you?” I said, a little embarrassed. “It was our landlady,” said Freda; “she is the daughter of the Major’s landlady. And you should hear what she says of Derrick! Why, he must be a downright hero! All the time I have been half despising him”--she choked back a sob--“he has been trying to save his father from what was certain death to him--so they told me. Do you think it is true?” “I know it is,” I replied gravely. “And about his arm--was that true?” I signed an assent. Her grey eyes grew moist. “Oh,” she cried, “how I have been deceived and how little Lawrence appreciates him! I think he must know that I’ve misjudged him, for he seems so odd and shy, and I don’t think he likes to talk to me.” I looked searchingly into her truthful grey eyes, thinking of poor Derrick’s unlucky love-story. “You do not understand him,” I said; “and perhaps it is best so.”