“Let me take you in first. Yes, yes, I will go.” “Never mind me; do not think of me,” said Marjory, nervously twining and untwining her hands. “And tell my uncle, please--and Fleming. Tell them; all except papa. God help him! it will kill him. It is I who must tell papa.” She looked so wild and woe-begone that he hesitated a moment; but she waved her hand to him almost with impatience. He looked back before he went into the house, and saw her sitting where he had left her--gazing into the vacant air before her, shedding no tears, twisting her fingers together; half crazed with the weight of trouble, which was more than she could bear. Fanshawe went softly into the house; he felt, but more strongly, as Marjory herself had felt when she went into Pitcomlie with the news of Tom’s illness. This secret, which was in his keeping, made him almost a traitor; he stole through the drawing-room, along the silent passage--nothing but sunshine seemed in the house--soft sunshine of the Spring, and fresh air, a little chilled by the sea, full of invigoration and sweet life. He knocked softly at the library-door, feeling his heart beat, as if in his very look the poor father must read the secret. There was no answer; he knocked again; how still it was! Just as a traveller might have gone into an enchanted palace, seeing signs of life about, careful order and guardianship, but no living thing; just so had he come in. The rooms were empty, swept and garnished; there was not a sound to be heard but the steady ticking of the great old clock, which stood in the hall, and the throbs of his own heart; and still no answer to the knock. Persuaded that Mr. Heriot must have gone out, Fanshawe opened the door softly to peep in, and make certain before he returned to Marjory. To his surprise, the first thing he saw was that Mr. Heriot was in his usual place, in his usual chair, calmly seated at his writing table, paying no attention. The opening of the door, and Fanshawe’s suppressed exclamation, “I did not know you were here, Sir,” disturbed him apparently as little as the knocking had done. Fanshawe had no message to give; he had forgotten even to make up any pretext for his visit; he said hastily, now feeling half ashamed of himself: “There is a book here I want to consult, if you will permit me,” and without waiting for an answer, he went hastily to the shelf, where stood a number of tall county histories--books which Mr. Heriot prized. Turning his back on the old man at his table, he hastily selected one of these books. “I fear I disturb you, Sir,” he said, in the easiest tone he could assume; “but in the first place, I thought you had gone out; and in the second place, I knew my business would not occupy a moment. I will put it safely back.”