"True. I might have known all along that you were right. It will be worth more than a sovereign to be able to tell Jenny that no one knows. And if she comes soon, the statement will do for the truth. Heigh-ho! do you know, I could throw my cap in the air, and hurrah like a schoolboy, when I think that my man has pulled through. A poisoning case is no joke, I can tell you; all hurry and confusion and uncertainty, with the prospect of a legal inquiry at the end of it. 'Do you mean to say, sir,'--Dudley adjusted an imaginary wig and weighed an imaginary eyeglass,--'that with a man's life at stake, you did so-and-so?' Ugh! who says a doctor's fees are easily earned? It would take many a jog-trot dyspepsia or liver complaint to restore the balance after that!" "I am quite sure of it; and now I advise you to go home and get a night's rest if you can." "But what am I to do about you? You don't suppose I am going to sleep the sleep of the unjust and leave you here?" "That is precisely what you are going to do. An hour's forced march will do me no harm; you have had no lack of them lately. I will ask you to leave this note for my cousin, and if you have no objection, I think you might ask Jenny's friend, Mrs Arnot--you know who I mean--to come up to-morrow morning. She is absolutely safe. Tell her to wait till the shops are open, and bring me the things I have jotted down here." Maggie was awake by this time, and Dudley paid her a short visit before he left. The poor girl thought the gentleman very kind, but she was thankful when he was gone, and she was alone once more with Mona. "I will tell you all how it was," she sobbed out convulsively. "Not to-night, dear," Mona said quietly, stroking the thick brown hair. "When you are a little stronger, you shall tell me the whole story. To-night you must lie quite still and rest. I will take care of you." It was a strange experience to sit there through the long hours, listening to the regular breathing of the young mother, the steady tick of the clock, and the occasional fall of a cinder from the grate. It seemed so incredible that this girl--this butterfly--had passed already, all frivolous and unprepared, through that tract of country which, to each fresh traveller, is only less new and mysterious than the river of death. A few months before, Mona had felt so old and wise, compared to that ignorant child; and now a great gulf of experience and of sorrow lay between them, and the child was on the farther side. More and more heavily the burden of the sorrows of her sex pressed on Mona's heart as the night went on; more and more she longed to carry all suffering women in her arms; more and more she felt her unworthiness for the life-work she had chosen, till at last, half unconsciously, she fell on her knees and her thoughts took the form of a prayer. CHAPTER XLII. QUESTIONINGS.