"Ruth, for the last time, I implore you to come with me," says Clarissa, brokenly. And once more the parched lips of the crouching woman frame the words, "It is too late!" A moment after, the door is opened, and closed again and Clarissa has looked her last upon Ruth Annersley. How she makes her way down to the room where Sir James sits awaiting her, Clarissa never afterwards remembers. "It is all over: take me away!" she says, quietly, but somewhat incoherently. "He isn't dead?" says Sir James, who naturally conceives the worst from her agitation. "No: it is even worse," she says. And then she covers her face with her hands, and sinks into a chair. "Ruth Annersley is here!" When she has said this, she feels that life has almost come to an end. How shall she make this wretched revelation to her father, to Georgie, to all the rest of the world? As for Sir James, he stands at some distance from her, literally stunned by the news. Words seem to fail him. He goes up to her and takes one of her small icy-cold hands in his. "Did you see her?" "Yes." "The scoundrel!" says Sir James, in a low tone. Then, "Is he very ill?" There is unmistakable meaning in his tone. "Very." And here she falls to bitter weeping again. It is a cruel moment: Sir James still holds her hand, but can find no words to say to comfort her; indeed, where can comfort lie? At this instant a heavy footfall resounds along the passage outside. It warns them of the sylph-like approach of Mrs. Goodbody. Sir James going quickly to the door, intercepts her. "My--my sister is quite upset," he says, nervously. "Mr. Branscombe was--was worse than she expected to find him." "Upset!--and no wonder, too," says Mrs. Goodbody, with heavy sympathy, gazing approvingly at Miss Peyton. "There's no denying that he's so worn out, the pore dear, as it's quite dispiritin' to see 'im, what with his general appearings and the fear of a bad turn at any mingit. For myself, I take my meals quite promiscuous like, since he fell ill,--just a bit here and a bit there, it may be, but nothing reg'lar like. I ain't got the 'art. Howsoever, 'hope on, hope never,' is my motter, miss; and we must allus hope for the best, as the sayin' is." "Just so," says Sir James, who doesn't know, in the very least, what to say. "A good wife, sir, I allus say, is half the battle; and that lady up-stairs, she is a reg'lar trump, she is, and so devoted, as it's quite affectin' to witness. Good-mornin' sir--thank you, sir. I'll see to him, you be bound; and, with his good lady above, there ain't the smallest----" Sir James, opening the hall door in despair, literally pushes Clarissa out and into the cab that is awaiting them. For a long time she says nothing; and just as he is beginning to get really anxious at her determined silence, she says, with some difficulty,-- "Jim, promise me something?" "Anything," says Jim.