"You need only have taken a human view," said Julie, in a voice that pierced; "I was alone, poor--worse than motherless. You might have done what you would with me. A little indulgence, and I should have been your devoted slave. But you chose to humiliate and crush me; and in return, to protect myself, I, in defending myself, have been led, I admit it, into taking liberties. There is no way out of it. I shall, of course, leave you to-morrow morning." "Then at last we understand each other," said Lady Henry, with a laugh. "Good-night, Miss Le Breton." She moved heavily on her sticks. Julie stood aside to let her pass. One of the sticks slipped a little on the polished floor. Julie, with a cry, ran forward, but Lady Henry fiercely motioned her aside. "Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" She paused a moment to recover breath and balance. Then she resumed her difficult walk. Julie followed her. "Kindly put out the electric lights," said Lady Henry, and Julie obeyed. They entered the hall in which one little light was burning. Lady Henry, with great difficulty, and panting, began to pull herself up the stairs. "Oh, _do_ let me help you!" said Julie, in an agony. "You will kill yourself. Let me at least call Dixon." "You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Henry, indomitable, though tortured by weakness and rheumatism. "Dixon is in my room, where I bade her remain. You should have thought of the consequences of this before you embarked upon it. If I were to die in mounting these stairs, I would not let you help me." "Oh!" cried Julie, as though she had been struck, and hid her eyes with her hand. Slowly, laboriously, Lady Henry dragged herself from step to step. As she turned the corner of the staircase, and could therefore be no longer seen from below, some one softly opened the door of the dining-room and entered the hall. Julie looked round her, startled. She saw Jacob Delafield, who put his finger to his lip. Moved by a sudden impulse, she bowed her head on the banister of the stairs against which she was leaning and broke into stifled sobs. Jacob Delafield came up to her and took her hand. She felt his own tremble, and yet its grasp was firm and supporting. "Courage!" he said, bending over her. "Try not to give way. You will want all your fortitude." "Listen!" She gasped, trying vainly to control herself, and they both listened to the sounds above them in the dark house--the labored breath, the slow, painful step. "Oh, she wouldn't let me help her. She said she would rather die. Perhaps I have killed her. And I could--I could--yes, I _could_ have loved her." She was in an anguish of feeling--of sharp and penetrating remorse. Jacob Delafield held her hand close in his, and when at last the sounds had died in the distance he lifted it to his lips. "You know that I am your friend and servant," he said, in a queer, muffled voice. "You promised I should be."