“Mr. Harrington,” she said, “Rose tells me you leave us early in the morning. I may as well shake your hand now. We part very good friends. I shall always be glad to hear of you.” Evan pressed her hand, and bowed. “I thank you, madam,” was all he could answer. “It will be better if you don’t write to Rose.” Her tone was rather that of a request than an injunction. “I have no right to do so, my lady.” “She considers that you have: I wish her to have, a fair trial.” His voice quavered. The philosophic lady thought it time to leave him. “So good-bye. I can trust you without extracting a promise. If you ever have need of a friend, you know you are at liberty to write to me.” “You are tired, my lady?” He put this question more to dally with what he ought to be saying. “Tolerably. Your sister, the Countess, relieves me in the night. I fancy my mother finds her the better nurse of the two.” Lady Jocelyn’s face lighted in its gracious pleasant way, as she just inclined her head: but the mention of the Countess and her attendance on Mrs. Bonner had nerved Evan: the contrast of her hypocrisy and vile scheming with this most open, noble nature, acted like a new force within him. He begged Lady Jocelyn’s permission to speak with her in private. Marking his fervid appearance, she looked at him seriously. “Is it really important?” “I cannot rest, madam, till it is spoken.” “I mean, it doesn’t pertain to the delirium? We may sleep upon that.” He divined her sufficiently to answer: “It concerns a piece of injustice done by you, madam, and which I can help you to set right.” Lady Jocelyn stared somewhat. “Follow me into my dressing-room,” she said, and led the way. Escape was no longer possible. He was on the march to execution, and into the darkness of his brain danced John Raikes, with his grotesque tribulations. It was the harsh savour of reality that conjured up this flighty being, who probably never felt a sorrow or a duty. The farce Jack lived was all that Evan’s tragic bitterness could revolve, and seemed to be the only light in his mind. You might have seen a smile on his mouth when he was ready to ask for a bolt from heaven to crush him. “Now,” said her ladyship, and he found that the four walls enclosed them, “what have I been doing?” She did not bid him be seated. Her brevity influenced him to speak to the point. “You have dismissed Mr. Laxley, my lady: he is innocent.” “How do you know that?” “Because,”—a whirl of sensations beset the wretched youth, “because I am guilty.” His words had run ahead of his wits; and in answer to Lady Jocelyn’s singular exclamation he could but simply repeat them. Her head drew back; her face was slightly raised; she looked, as he had seen her sometimes look at the Countess, with a sort of speculative amazement. “And why do you come to tell me?” “For the reason that I cannot allow you to be unjust, madam.” “What on earth was your motive?” Evan stood silent, flinching from her frank eyes.