"No; I was not there. I know I have been blamed for that." "Oh, indeed I had no such meaning!" "I well believe it. But I _have_ been blamed--most unjustly. I went away with my father's full consent; indeed, he thought I needed the change. He wrote to me when he found himself growing worse, to ask me to come back. Of course I meant to comply with that request. You cannot doubt it?" "I have no right to doubt it," answered May gently. "No, but pray listen! I wish to justify myself in your eyes. The truth is, I was in the act of packing my valise to return to Oldchester when a telegram reached me, saying that my father's danger was imminent. I was in Yorkshire, in a country house, where there was but one postal delivery a day. Letters were often delayed, and, in fact, my father's letter had preceded the telegram only by a few hours." "Oh, how sad! I am so sorry for you!" cried May, clasping her hands. She felt some generous compunction for having done him injustice. "Yes; I have lost a good father," said Theodore. "You have, indeed. And what a loss is Mrs. Bransby's!" A subtle change came over his face, although he did not seem to move a muscle, and he made no answer. "How is she?" asked May, leaning forward eagerly. Theodore's eyebrows took their old supercilious curve, as he replied, "Mrs. Bransby? Oh, she's quite well, I believe." "Believe! Have you not seen her lately?" "Oh yes; I have seen her. She appeared perfectly well. I did not at first quite take in the sense of your question; but I see now what you meant. Every one has not such keen sensibilities as you, May." Even this familiar use of her name she let pass, although it jarred upon her. "I am sure Mrs. Bransby is not insensible," she answered. "And she loved your father dearly." "I am not disputing it. But she was, and is, a doating mother, and her feelings are greatly engrossed by her children. In one way this is happy for her. She does not feel the void, the loneliness, which oppresses me." It seemed to May that there might be some truth in this. Theodore was not generally beloved. Cold as he seemed, he doubtless missed his father's affection. He would feel isolated and forlorn. This might be in great part his own fault; but May pitied him. She softened towards him still more when he went on to speak of his plans for assisting his young step-brothers. He had already offered to send Martin to school at his own expense. He was endeavouring to be of use to Mrs. Bransby. She was, unfortunately, very unpractical, and rather impracticable; but he hoped that, when her grief calmed down, she would listen to reason and take advice. "Is she not well off?" asked May, moved by genuine interest in the widow and her family.