"It is a grand work, and Heaven knows I wish I were more capable. There will be so much to do. I shall have to start a hospital, even in the humblest way at first, and let it grow by degrees. There will be a great deal of prejudice, too, to overcome, but it will be satisfactory to master all these difficulties one by one. And I will!" he cried with energy. "Yes: Sir Denton is right," he added enthusiastically; "it will be a grand work, and I long to get there and begin." "And you will go without fear," she said, as if she were speaking a solemn truth. "I hope so," he said humbly; "but man is very weak. There, I am going, weak or strong, and I think you know me enough to believe that I shall do my best." "Yes, I know that," she said gravely, and her voice was very low and sweet. "Thank you. It encourages me," he said cheerfully. "You will give me your prayers for my success, I know." "Indeed, yes," she said, as she looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were wet with tears. "Don't--don't do that," he said huskily. "It is nothing to grieve for. I only say, forgive me for all the mistaken past, and--" His emotion choked him for the moment, but he struggled bravely to go on: "And I pray God to bless you in your future, and make you very happy, dear. It is your brother speaking to his sister, and my words now are an honest and self-denying as ever man spoke." "I know it," she said, with quivering lips, and her sweet voice thrilled him and made him falter; but he fought on. "I have known for long that you could speak nothing but the honest truth." "Thank you," he said quickly; "thank you. You and I have worked together long now, and have had some triumphs of which we might boast. Where _is_ Sir Denton? He ought to come, and we could chat over all of my projects. I shall write to you, of course, and tell you all I am doing, and you can give me a word or two of advice, perhaps. Why, nurse--I beg your pardon--Lady Cicely--your name sounds strange to me, I have so lately heard it from Sir Denton--how grateful we all ought to be for your devotion to our good cause. Forgive me for speaking so." She seemed plunged in thought, and not to hear his words, and he started, as she spoke now in alow, soft, dreamy way, as if uttering the thoughts that had occupied her for the past few minutes. "You are going out possibly to your death, Neil Elthorne," she said. "That is the worst that can happen." "No," she said softly, "not the worst. You are going yonder to fight with disease, forsaking all who love you, offering up your own life as a sacrifice, that yonder poor stricken creatures may live." "Heaven only knows," he said solemnly. "You are going alone, to face the horrors of a pestilence without the help such as you find here." "Yes, but I shall soon get assistance, and till then I must do my best." She looked across at him where he stood, and again that dim room was silent, so that the slightest sound would have been a relief.