I stormed up and down the room, incoherently declaring my intentions and upbraiding Hephzy for not having sent the groom or the gardener to find me, for allowing all the precious time to elapse. Hephzy offered no excuse. She did not attempt justification. Instead she brought the railway time-table, gave orders that the horse be harnessed, helped me in every way. She would have prepared a meal for me with her own hands, would have fed me like a baby, if I had permitted it. One thing she did insist upon. “You must rest a few minutes, Hosy,” she said. “You must, or you'll be down sick. You haven't slept a wink all night. You haven't eaten anything to speak of since yesterday noon. You can't go this way. You must go to your room and rest a few minutes. Lie down and rest, if you can.” “Rest!” “You must. The train doesn't leave Haddington for pretty nigh two hours, and we've got lots of time. I'll fetch you up some tea and toast or somethin' by and by and I'll be all ready to start when you are. Now go and lie down, Hosy dear, to please me.” I ignored the last sentence. “You will be ready?” I repeated. “Do you mean you're going with me?” “Of course I am. It isn't likely I'll let you start off all alone, when you're in a state like this. Of course I'm goin' with you. Now go and lie down. You're so worn out, poor boy.” I must have had a glimmer of reason then, a trace of decency and unselfishness. For the first time I thought of her. I remembered that she, too, had loved Little Frank; that she, too, must be suffering. “I am no more tired than you are,” I said. “You have slept and eaten no more than I. You are the one who must rest. I sha'n't let you go with me.” “It isn't a question of lettin'. I shall go if you do, Hosy. And a woman don't need rest like a man. Please go upstairs and lie down, Hosy. Oh,” with a sudden burst of feeling, “don't you see I've got about all I can bear as it is? I can't--I can't have YOU to worry about too.” My conscience smote me. “I'll go, Hephzy,” said I. “I'll do whatever you wish; it is the least I can do.” She thanked me. Then she said, hesitatingly: “Here is--here is her letter, Hosy. You may like to read it again. Perhaps it may help you to decide what is best to do.” She handed me the letter. I took it and went to my room. There I read it again and again. And, as I read, the meaning of Hephzy's last sentence, that the letter might help me to decide what was best to do, began to force itself upon my overwrought brain. I began to understand what she had understood from the first, that my trip to London was hopeless, absolutely useless--yes, worse than useless. “You must not try to find me... You must not follow me or think of asking me to come back. That I shall never do.”