“Farewell, dear John; if we ever should meet in this world--if I should ever be cleared-- I cannot tell--most likely not--my children will grow up without knowing me; but I dare not think on that subject, much less say anything. God bless them! Be as much a father to them as you can, and let my Rosalind have the letter I enclose; it will do her no harm: anyhow, she would not believe harm of me, even though she saw what looked like harm. Pity me a little, John. I have taken my doom quietly because I have no hope--neither in what I leave nor in what I go to is there any hope. GRACE TREVANION.” This letter forced tears, such as a man is very slow to shed, to John Trevanion’s eyes; but there was in reality no explanation in it, no light upon the family catastrophe, or the confusion of misery and perplexity she had left behind. CHAPTER XXIV. “Have you ever noticed in your walks, doctor, a young fellow?--you couldn’t but remark him--a sort of _primo tenore_, big eyed, pale faced--” “All pulmonary,” said Dr. Beaton. “I know the man you mean. He has been hanging about for a month, more or less, with no visible object. To tell the truth--” John Trevanion raised his hand instinctively. “I find,” he said, interrupting with a hurried precaution, “that he has been in hiding for some offence, and men have come after him here because of an envelope with the Highcourt stamp--” Here Dr. Beaton began, with a face of regret, yet satisfaction, to nod his head, with that offensive air of “I knew it all the time,” which is more exasperating than any other form of remark. “The Highcourt stamp,” continued Trevanion, peremptorily, “and a direction written in my poor brother’s hand.” “In your brother’s hand!” “I thought I should surprise you,” John said, with a grim satisfaction. “I suppose it is according to the rules of the profession that so much time should have been let slip. I am very glad of it, for my part. Whatever Reginald can have had to do with the fellow--something accidental, no doubt--it would have been disagreeable to have his name mixed up-- I saw the man myself trying to make himself agreeable to Rosalind.” “To Miss Trevanion?” cried the doctor, with evident dismay. “Why, I thought--” “Oh, it was a very simple matter,” said John, interrupting again. “He laid down some planks for her to cross the floods. And the recompense she gave him was to doubt whether he was a gentleman, because he had paid her a compliment--which I must say struck me as a very modest attempt at a compliment.” “It was a tremendous piece of presumption,” said the doctor, with Scotch warmth. “I don’t doubt Miss Rosalind’s instinct was right, and that he was no gentleman. He had not the air of it, in my opinion--a limp, hollow-eyed, phthisical subject.”