By-and-by the London dawn crept into the chamber, and found me spent and worn with sleeplessness. While Ronald still slumbered, I rose, washed and dressed without noise, and went out into the little yard to see how nurse's ivy flourished. There I lingered, listening to the chirping of the sparrows, until it was time for breakfast. It was a brief meal, eaten in silence and mutual restraint. Then, without a word of adieu, Ronald went his way to the City, and I was left to brood over the events of the previous day alone. It chanced that nurse was busy that day, and did not come to talk to me and hear all about the picnic. I got my work-basket and went on sewing and mending as usual, trying not to feel the icy hand that was holding my heart in an iron grasp—trying to forget the dull pain in my temples. And so the morning wore away. In the afternoon I established myself in my old seat in the arm-chair, determined to court repose. If I slept at all, it could only have been a doze which lasted a few minutes. And then, as before, a loud double knock made me start up, half-bewildered; and once again William Greystock was my visitor. His first glance at me must have shown him the evident traces of misery and illness; my first glance at him revealed a change in his face which startled and astonished me. His olive skin was glowing, and there was such an intense light in his dark eyes that I almost shrank from their gaze. But when he spoke, his voice was curiously gentle and calm. "I have come to see how you are, Mrs. Hepburne," he began, as I rose, tottering, from my seat. "No better than I expected to find you, I fear?" "I was scarcely strong enough to go to Richmond," I said, making a wretched attempt to be at ease. [Illustration: MY FIRST GLANCE REVEALED A CHANGE IN HIS FACE WHICH STARTLED ME.] "The whole thing was a miserable mistake on my part," he said, sadly. "I don't know that it was a mistake, Mr. Greystock," I answered, still trying to talk in a commonplace way. "Ronald thought it a very successful picnic. I am rapidly becoming a morose invalid, you know, and I can't enjoy myself as others can. For the future I must be content to be a home-bird." "A home-bird whose song has ceased," he said, in his deep, mournful voice. "But there is still one power left to you." "What power?" I asked, bewildered. "The power to fly; the power to leave one who will very soon leave you. Ah, Mrs. Hepburne, I have come to say startling things; I know not how you will bear to hear them!" "Speak on," I said, hoarsely. "Has Ronald sent you? There is some dreadful news to be told. Is my husband ill? For heaven's sake, tell me quickly what has happened!" [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. FLIGHT. "DO not distress yourself about Ronald," said William Greystock, gently laying a hand on my arm and putting me back into my seat. "I have seen him to-day, and he is well enough. It is not the state of his health that need concern you now."