And those letters which had excited their wrath?--there was nothing of treason or espionage in them; they were but love notes from a British officer whose chivalric homage had been an honour to any woman. He knew, for he had put her answers into the breastpocket of the young officer the day they buried him from the battle-field on the banks of the river that flows forever to the sea. So he finished; and thus did Joscelyn stand before them at last in her true colours. Then with the heat of his anger still upon him, and not waiting for Betty, Richard got his hat and quitted the house. After that scene, the air of the room stifled him. He could not be sorry for what he had done, but he must go straight to Joscelyn and tell her himself, and make what peace with her he might. He could better afford to bear her anger than to hear her maligned by those who would be utterly incapable of her courage or her sacrifice. He had always known he must tell his story if he heard her slandered. He was very weak from his long stay indoors, and the excitement of the scene through which he had just passed had left his brain dizzy, so that he was all unfit to take the homeward journey alone. He did not notice the ice on the crossing until suddenly he felt himself slipping--faster, faster. He made one frantic effort to regain his balance, missed his footing, and came down with a crash and a groan upon the jagged cobblestones. He heard a woman's voice scream out in terror, saw Joscelyn kneel beside him, and then he fainted. It destroyed his last chance,--that terrible fall,--the doctors said; for the arm had again been fractured and lacerated beyond cure, and to lose it was the one hope of life; and even that hope was but a slender one. When Joscelyn heard this, she stayed all the afternoon in her room, holding the gold piece very hard and tight and weeping bitterly. But the operation was successful; and for long days the patient lay quiet, getting back his hold on the world. His recovery was slower even than had been expected, but it was sure, and that was enough for thankfulness. His mother was telling him this one gusty April twilight, when Joscelyn came into the room on one of her rare visits. The door was open, so they had not known she was there; and stopping to remove her wrap, for the day was cool and showery, she heard the end of their talk. "Fretting is wrong, Richard. You should be thankful for so sure a recovery." "Perchance I should; but what avails health when a man may not have that which is dearer than the strength of giants?" "And what may that be, my son?" "Joscelyn. I love her--love her beyond all words, all thoughts; and now I shall never possess her." "I had long ago guessed your love for her," his mother said slowly; then added, after a pause, "but I see not why you should not possess her; you have a true heart, a goodly property, and a shapely figure which this accident will scarcely mar; a man like that has but to ask--"