"Mercy, dear, I am in sore trouble and perplexity. If you can make an effort and rally now and help me, you will do me the greatest favour in the world. Both Sarita Castelar—who is your cousin—and I are in imminent danger of being arrested and sent to gaol, and I want your woman’s wit, and that of our good friend here—to get us out of it. Mrs. Curwen, you have often declared your friendship for me, will you show it now in this?" I knew my sister well enough to be sure that such an appeal would be the finest tonic in the world, and that it would stir up every scrap of pluck in her to face the emergency. And I was right. She pulled herself together, and kissing me, sat up. "This awful news about Lascelles——" she began. "You must put the thought of it away for the present, Mercy, and face the danger here," I interposed, earnestly. "There is no time for the indulgence of grief." Mrs. Curwen had stood in silence during the short by-scene with Mercy, and the catchy breathing, slightly paled cheek, firmly pressed lip, and quick glances flashed from me to Sarita, told me she was moved. She bent forward as Mercy sat up in answer to my appeal, laid a hand on my arm and looked into my face with more earnestness and feeling than I had ever known her display, as she asked— "What is this girl to you, Ferdinand?" and her eyes searched mine keenly for the truth. "As I live, she is more to me than life itself," I answered in a low whisper that trembled with suppressed passion. At the reply, she drew her hand hastily from my arm, closed her eyes, bit her lip as she drew one deep breath, and clenched her hands in a moment of intense agitation. But in the moment she had herself in hand again, a smile broke the set pallor of her face, she gave me her hand. "Then, of course, we’ll do all we can. What queer, clumsy creatures you men are sometimes. Why on earth didn’t you tell us before?" and like the plucky little soul she was, the smile quickened into a rallying laugh. I had no words ready for a reply. I was too much moved; and I held out my hand in silence and pressed hers. Mercy had been scarcely less moved by my news, and getting up now, put her arms round her friend’s waist and kissed her. "What a fuss you two make about a trifle," said the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "Come, Mercy, we must do something, instead of chattering here; and let poor Mr. Mayhew off duty. I hope he isn’t as awfully uncomfortable as he looks;" and she and Mercy crossed to Sarita. "Lord Glisfoyle wants you a minute, Mr. Mayhew," she said, and then earnestly to Sarita, "My dear, let me call you that, I want to apologise to you, but I didn’t know. Will you forgive me? Lord Glisfoyle is a very dear friend of mine—and you must be too."