‘I told him that this room was exactly over my grandfather’s, and that he couldn’t make a worse choice if he didn’t want to be heard. “I’ll take care,” he said; “I can walk as softly as a cat when I like. The other rooms are all damp.” He carried the bedstead and an old table and chair into this room, lit a fire, taking great care to make no noise, and made himself tolerably comfortable, while I went down-stairs to get what provisions I could out of our scantily-furnished larder. After this he came and went as he liked; sometimes he would sleep away whole days, sometimes he would be absent three or four days at a time. I had to let him out at night or let him in, just as he pleased; sometimes I sat up all night waiting for him. When he was away I had to keep a candle burning in one of the back windows on the top floor, to show that all was safe if he wanted to return. I cannot tell you the anxiety I suffered all through this time. The power of sleep seemed to leave me altogether. Even when I did not expect my father’s return, I was always listening for his signal—a handful of gravel thrown up against the window of my room. I knew that I was doing wrong, and yet could not feel sorry that I had granted his request. It seemed such a small thing to give my father an empty garret in this great desolate house. So things went on till the day when you and I were in the loft together; and when you saw the door of my father’s room opened and shut. You can guess what I suffered then, Lucius.’ ‘Poor child, poor child!’ he murmured tenderly. ‘And then came the day when you—No, I can’t speak of it any more, Lucius. All that followed that time is too dreadful. I woke up to the knowledge that my father had tried to—murder—’ The words came slowly, stifled with sobs, and once more Lucille broke down altogether. ‘Not another word, darling,’ cried her lover. ‘You have no reason to reproach yourself. When you admitted Ferdinand Sivewright to this house, you only obeyed the natural impulse of a woman’s tender heart. Had the most fatal result followed that man’s baneful presence no blame could have attached to you; and now, dearest, listen to me. Brief as my absence will be, I don’t mean to leave you here while I am away. You have had enough of this house for the present. This faithful heart has been too much tried—this active brain too severely tasked. As your medical adviser, I order change of air and scene. As your future husband, I insist upon being obeyed.’ ‘Leave poor grandpapa! Impossible, Lucius.’ ‘Poor grandpapa shall be reconciled to your departure. He is going on very well, and is in excellent hands. Nurse Milderson is as true as steel. Besides, you are not going to be absent long, Lucille. I shall take you away to-morrow morning, and bring you back again, God willing, a week hence.’ ‘Take me away! Where, Lucius?’ ‘To my sister Janet.’