“I will put it away,” his wife said; but he made a slight negative movement of his head and succeeded in pushing it into a letter-case, which he always carried. The envelope had dropped on the floor. Who thought anything of it? He had things to move him quite sufficient to account for any disturbance of the heart without seeking for further causes. After a while the faintness passed off, his breathing improved, his heart began to beat naturally, and he came, or seemed to come, to himself. When he went up stairs with Lady Markham’s anxious attendance, Alice and the young man remained alone. These few minutes had done as much as weeks generally do towards the growing acquaintance of these two young persons. Fairfax had run hither and thither to get whatever they wanted. He had supported Sir William up stairs. He had shared in the alarm, the confusion, the trouble of the moment. Alice came down with him after her father had been established in his room, to think of the civilities which were due to a stranger. The half-eaten meal on the table, the confusion of chairs, the air of human trouble and agitation in the place had already made the bare room more like an inhabited house. Alice faintly begged her companion to take his place again. “Mamma will come presently. He will want nothing but quiet and rest: he has been--worried--you know.” “Yes,” said Fairfax; “it throws a light upon some things I never thought of before. My people are robust, fortunately; they are only uncles and aunts, who don’t suffer in the same way as one’s parents, I suppose. But, Miss Markham, if any one had cared as much for me--I have given a great deal more cause for anxiety than your brother has done. When I see how you are all upset it makes me blush for myself.” “Oh, Mr. Fairfax, it is so kind, so good of you to say so.” “Is it?” he said, with genuine surprise; “now I wonder why? There is no goodness about it, I fear, one way or the other. Only there are lots of us that don’t realise--that can’t understand.” Alice’s heart grew quite light. She considered that this independent testimony was as good as a vindication of Paul. A young man, a comrade, must know all about him, that was self-evident; and when he declared so distinctly Paul’s superiority to himself what doubt could there be that such an uncalled, generous witness must be trustworthy? She could have laughed, or cried for pleasure. “I should like mamma to hear you,” she said. “I suppose it is because he is so much to us all that we are so foolish. You don’t think he will really go away? That is what worries papa. He wants him to go into parliament, and public life.” Fairfax laughed.