Pity and impetuous love made him bold. No sooner were they in a quiet unfrequented street than he quickened his pace, came up with them, and dared once more to address the woman who had scorned him. ‘Forgive me, Mrs. Bertram,’ he said. ‘I have heard of your little girl’s illness, and I am so anxious to know if I can be of any use to you. Is there anything I can do?’ ‘Nothing,’ she answered sadly, not slackening her pace for a moment. ‘It is kind of you to wish to help me, but unless you could give my darling health and strength—she was so well and strong only a few days ago—you can do nothing. She is in God’s hands; I must be patient. I daresay it is only a childish illness, which need not make me miserable. But—but she is all the world to me.’ ‘Are you satisfied with your doctor, or shall I get you other medical advice? I will telegraph to London for any one you would like to have.’ ‘You are very kind,’ she answered gently, her manner strangely different from what it had been in the garden. ‘No; I have no reason to be dissatisfied with the doctor who is attending my pet. He is kind, and seems clever. I thank you for your wish to help me in my trouble. Good-night.’ They were in the street where she lived by this time. She made him a little curtsy, and passed on very quickly to the shop door, and vanished from his eager eyes. He paced the street for an hour, watching the light in the two little windows above the shop, before he went back to his hotel, and for him the night was sleepless. How could he rest while she was unhappy? CHAPTER VIII. GEOFFREY INCLINES TO SUSPICION. Towards morning self-indulgent habits triumphed over anxious love. After tossing all night in feverish unrest, Mr. Hossack slept soundly till noon; but not a commonplace slumber, for the visions of his head upon his bed were made beautiful to him by the image of his beloved. She was with him in that dream-world where all is smooth and fair as the wide bosom of Danube when no storm-wind ruffles his waters; a world where there were neither sick children nor concerts—nothing but happiness and love. He awakened himself reluctantly from so sweet a delusion, dressed and breakfasted hurriedly, and went straight to the little draper’s shop at the fag end of Stillmington. After Mrs. Bertram’s gentler manner last night, he felt as if he might venture to approach her. Sorrow had brought them nearer to each other; she who had so sternly repulsed his love had not rejected his sympathy. She had thanked him, even, for his proffered aid, in that thrilling voice which in speech as in song went straight to his heart. The young woman was behind the counter when he went in, reading a number of the _London Journal_ in pensive solitude. ‘How is the little girl this morning?’ he asked eagerly.