"Rodney, you must," said Mrs. Ffolliott. "But, mamma, it may not be convenient--" began Carolyn. "I want Rod!" There were indications that the small legs under the bed-cover were about to kick with what strength they had. "I'll stay," said Lawrence. So it came about that he did not go back to the hotel that night, and that the crow spent the remainder of the time until morning on the same chair where his master had placed him in one of the lower rooms at Savin Hill. The doctor came and spoke vaguely of "convulsive seizure," said nothing could have been better than a warm bath, left some medicine, and drove away. Lawrence kept his promise to the boy, and passed the night on the bed by Leander's side. In the early morning he rose. The boy was asleep, but it was evident that he would be ill,--how ill could not yet be told. Weary, indescribably depressed, the young man went slowly down the stairs. A servant had apparently been watching for him, for a tray with hot coffee and bread and butter was immediately brought to him. Having eaten and drunk, a spark of courage seemed to come to his consciousness. He looked out of the window. An east fog had risen in the early morning, and all the world was a dense mist. He could hear the low booming of the sea against the shore. Do you think he thought of Carolyn as those in battle think of peace, as those in despair think of that time when they may hope? He turned from the window and went to the room where he had left Devil. He would take the crow and go back to his own life again. He shivered uncontrollably. The house was utterly still. A clock struck six. Mrs. Ffolliott was with her son. Yes, there was the crow, looking as if it had not stirred all night. But it moved now as its master approached, raised itself, and turned its head that it might gaze at him with one eye. It lifted its wings also, and stretched out one leg, gaping as it did so. The man's pulses gave a great start, and he sprang forward, seized the bird, and found a small roll of thin paper fastened to its wing. "So you are a carrier-dove," he said, harshly. He took the paper to the window and unfolded it with hands that trembled in spite of all his efforts to make them firm. Yes, there was his wife's handwriting, close, upright, regular; her hand had not trembled when she had penned these lines. Lawrence's lips set themselves hardly under his mustache, as his eyes, beneath heavily frowning brows, glanced at the first words. These words were "My dear Rodney." Having read thus much, Lawrence turned and pulled a chair up to the window. Then he looked at the door; what if some one should come in? It not being his own room he could not turn the key. He felt as if he were on the brink of a precipice and he must be alone that he might gaze over the edge of it unhindered. Was it possible that he hated the woman who had written this? And now had she disgraced him?