It was a strange state she was in, but the doctor said she was mending, that the danger was past, and a week or two of perfect quiet would restore her to a more natural condition. Had he said otherwise, Roger would not have gone, but now it was better for him to leave her while she was unconscious of the pain it cost him to do so; and on the night before his departure for the West he went to look at her for the last time. Only Celine was with her and she thoughtfully withdrew, leaving him alone with Magdalen, whose pale lips he kissed so passionately and on whose face he dropped tears of bitter anguish. Years after, when her eyes were shining upon him full of love and tenderness and trust, he told her of that parting scene; but she knew nothing of it then, and only moved a little uneasily and muttered something he could not understand. She had no farewell word for him, and so he kissed her lips and forehead once more and drew the covering smoothly about her, and buttoned the cuff of her night-dress, which he saw was unfastened, and moved the lamp a little more into the shadow, because he thought it hurt her eyes, and then went out and left her there alone. * * * * * They were astir early at Millbank the next morning, and a most tempting breakfast, prepared by Hester herself, awaited Roger in the dining-room. But he could not eat, and, after a few ineffectual attempts to swallow the rich, golden-colored coffee, he rose from the table and left the dining-room. Knowing that he would, of course, come to say good-by to her, and dreading an interview with him when no one was present, Mrs. Walter Scott had made a “great effort” to dress herself, and come down to breakfast. But she _panted_ hard, and seemed too weak to talk, and kept her hand a good deal on her left side, where she said she experienced great pain since her illness, and sometimes feared her lungs were affected. With all her languor and weakness, she could not quite conceal her elation at the near prospect of being entirely alone in her glory, and it showed itself in her face and in her eyes, which, nevertheless, tried to look so sorry and pitiful when, at last, Roger turned to her to say good-by. She had nothing to fear from him now. He had given up quietly. Success was hers, with riches and luxury. It could matter little what Roger thought of her. His opinion could not change her position at Millbank. Still, in her heart she respected him more than any man living, and would rather he thought well of her than ill. So, with that look in her eyes which they always wore when she wanted to be particularly interesting, she held his hand between her own and said,— “I can’t let you go without hearing you say that you forgive me for any wrong you imagine me to have done, and that you will not cherish hard feelings toward me. Tell me this, can’t you, _dear brother_?”