"But it was through no fault of yours, Lu; you were not in the least to blame," said Harold soothingly. "And you can pray for his recovery; we all will. But don't worry and fret; for that will only make you unhappy and perhaps ill, and do him no good." "That is good advice, Harold," said her father, who had joined them just in time to hear it; "worrying about what may happen only unfits us for present duty, and makes us less able to meet the trouble when it comes." "That scoundrel is dead?" Harold said half inquiringly. "Yes; Chester's shot, fired simultaneously with his, was fatal. He dropped, and, I think, died almost instantly. Poor wretch! the world is well rid of him; but what has become of his soul?" "Oh, I don't believe Chester meant to kill him outright!" exclaimed Lucilla; "I believe he was only thinking of saving my life." "And to kill the wretch who was trying to kill you seemed to be the only way of doing that," said Harold. "But I must go," he added, rising. "We think we must have a professional nurse for Chester. I happen to know of one who has just finished an engagement, and I am going for her at once, if you do not object to having her in the house, Vi--you or the captain." Both promptly replied that they would be glad to have her there, and Harold at once set out upon his errand. For some days Chester lay half unconscious, and apparently hovering upon the brink of the grave, while those who loved him watched and waited in intense anxiety. Then a change came, and the doctors said he would recover. Lucilla heard it with a burst of weeping that seemed more like the expression of despair and sorrow than the relief and joy that really filled her heart. It was her father who told her the glad news, and they were alone together in the library. He drew her into his arms and held her close. "It is altogether glad news, dear child," he said; "Chester is a Christian and a young man of talent who will lead a useful life, I think, and it would have been a bitter sorrow to have had him fall a victim to that worthless, cowardly convict." "And in my defence," she sobbed. "Oh, papa, it makes my heart ache to think how he has suffered because of risking his life in the effort to save mine." "Yes; I am very grateful to him--so grateful that I feel I can refuse him nothing that he may ask of me--even though it should be the the hand of my dear eldest daughter." She gave him a look of surprise, while her cheek grew hot with blushes. "You know that he wants it--that he loves you. He made it very plain as we stood by him in the road soon after he fell." "Yes, sir; and I have thought of it very often since. It surprised me very much, for I had never thought of him as a lover." "And how is it now?" asked her father, as she paused; "do you care for him at all? can you give him any return of affection?"