‘Of course!’ exclaimed Mrs. Milderson, as if she had known all about it from the very beginning. ‘Do you suppose Dr. Davoren would go wasting of his precious time in France or anywheres else, with all his patients fretting and worriting about him—and left to the mercy of a strange doctor, which don’t know the ins and outs of their cases, and the little peculiarities of their constitushuns, no more than a baby?’ After tea Mrs. Milderson retired with the tray, and was absent for some time in attendance on Mr. Sivewright, who took his light repast of dry toast and tea also at this hour. Thus Lucius and Lucille were alone together for a little while. They stood side by side at the open window, which commanded no wider prospect than the bare courtyard or garden, where a few weakly chrysanthemums languished in a neglected bed, and two or three feeble sycamores invited the dust, while one ancient poplar, whose branches had grown thin and ragged with age, straggled up towards the calm evening sky. A high wall bounded this barren domain and shut out the world beyond it. ‘We must go up to grandpapa presently,’ said Lucille; ‘he likes us to sit with him for an hour or two in the evening now that he is so much better.’ ‘Yes, dear, we will go; but before we go I want to ask you about something that has often set me wondering, yet which in all our talk we have spoken of very little.’ ‘What is that, Lucius?’ ‘About your earliest memories of childhood, Lucille. The time before you lived in Bond-street with your grandfather.’ To his surprise and distress she turned from him suddenly, and burst into tears. ‘My darling, I did not mean to grieve you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Then never speak to me again of my childhood, Lucius,’ she said with sorrowful earnestness. ‘It is a subject I can never speak of, never think of, without grief. Never again, if you wish me to be happy, mention the name of father.’ ‘What?’ said Lucius; ’then that dream is over?’ ‘It is,’ answered Lucille, in a heartbroken voice, ‘and the awakening has been most bitter.’ ‘Thank Heaven that awakening has come, Lucille—even at the cost of pain to your true and tender heart,’ replied her lover earnestly. ‘My dearest, I am not going to torture you with questions. The mystery of these last few weeks has been slowly growing clear to me. There has been a great peril hanging over us; but I believe and hope that it is past. Of your innocent share in bringing that danger beneath this roof, I will say not a word.’ ‘What, you know, Lucius?’ she said, with a perplexed look. ‘I know, or can guess, all, Lucille. How your too faithful affection has been traded upon by a villain.’