And now he could not fall back to his old position all at once. Only a minute or two ago Maude Hillary had been sobbing on his breast,--his bride, his wife; and he half fancied he had some kind of right to sympathize with her emotion. He stopped suddenly on the threshold of the study, quite unmanned by the sight of Mr. Hillary’s daughter, half kneeling, half lying on the ground, with her face buried in the cushions of a sofa, and her hands clasped in a despairing attitude above the fair tangled hair that had so lately lain upon his breast. Her whole frame was shaken by the vehemence of her sobs; and before such a picture as this it was scarcely strange if poor country-bred Francis Tredethlyn quite forgot that he was _not_ Claude Melnotte. He bent over the prostrate girl, and laid his big fingers gently upon one of those little bejewelled hands clasped so convulsively above the fair head. “Miss Hillary,” he exclaimed, “dear Miss Hillary, for pity’s sake, tell me what distresses you--what has happened--what is wrong--or--I--I beg your pardon--you have over-fatigued yourself, and you are hysterical; let me send for your maid.” “Oh, no, no, no!” cried the girl, rising to her feet, and standing before him, but with her face still hidden from him, hidden by her outspread hands and her dishevelled hair. “Shall I call Julia? she is in the room yonder.” “Oh, no! I--I want to speak to you, Mr. Tredethlyn; stay just a little, please. Ah! it is so hard, so cruel, but the last chance! In all the world there is no one else who can save me--and my father--my poor, miserable, bankrupt father!” Francis looked at Miss Hillary in complete bewilderment. Her father--her bankrupt father! Why, then she was still thinking of the scene that was just finished, and the commercial troubles of Monsieur Deschappelles; which character, by the way, had been enacted by a very young man of a sickly cast of countenance, and an inclination to hang his head dejectedly throughout the performance of the drama. It is a rule amongst amateurs to assign the elderly and ineligible characters to the youngest and meekest members of the company; whereby Monsieur Deschappelles is usually represented as a young person of some nineteen summers, with flour in his hair, dirty streaks, supposed to represent wrinkles, upon his face, and a tendency to squeakiness in his voice. “I am sure you are over-fatigued, over-excited by the play,” urged Francis; “do let me call Julia.” “No!” cried Miss Hillary, dropping her hands from before her face. “Oh, Mr. Tredethlyn,” she exclaimed, almost passionately, “can’t you understand--can’t you see that I am in earnest? Do you think that scene just now would have made me cry as it did, if it had not reminded me of my own sorrow? Mr. Tredethlyn--I--I know you are a good man, that you would not be slow to do a kindness for anyone who needed your help; I know that; and I--I thought I should have courage to speak to you, but now the words won’t come--I----”