Lady Barbara shivered, drew her gown closer, and sank to the bed again, gazing straight before her. “Yes, that is what will happen, Martha--he would kill him. I see it all now. That is what would have happened to our gardener who ruined the gatekeeper's daughter, if the man had not left England. She was only a girl--hardly grown; yes, it all comes back to me. I remember what my husband did.” She was still speaking under her breath, reciting the story more to herself than to Martha, her voice rising and falling, at times hardly audible. “Nothing--happened then--because my husband--did not find the man.” She faced the nurse again. “You won't let him come here, will you, Martha?” “He'll come, my lady, if Stephen can get hold of him,” came the positive reply. “He had a room in a lodging-house not far from here, but he left it, and Stephen doesn't know where he's gone. But he'll turn up again down at the shop, and then--” “But you must not let him come,” she burst out. Again she sat upright. “I won't have it--please--PLEASE! I will go away if you do, where nobody will ever find me. I could not have him see me--see me like this.” She looked at her thin hands and over her shabby gown. “Not like THIS!” “No, you won't go away, my lady.” There was a ring of authority now in the nurse's voice. “You'll stay here. It's the only way out of this misery for you. As for Mr. Felix and that scoundrel who has ruined you, Mr. Felix will take care of him. But I'm going to let Mr. Felix in, if the dear Lord will let him come. Mr. Felix loves you and--” Her body stiffened. “He never loved me. He only loved his father,” she cried angrily, and again she sank back on her pillow. “All my misery came from that.”