But Mr. Kelly knew already; he knew from Cecilia's own lips how matters were; and he might even be able to assure Lettice that things were not so bad as she feared. She had not heard all, or nearly all, that had passed between him and Cecilia. Some word of hope might have fallen later, which she had missed, and which he could repeat. Lettice dwelt upon this possibility, until it gained large proportions; and the formal call upon Mr. Kelly, which at first she had shrunk from, became a necessity. Questions of propriety had not yet begun to trouble Lettice; indeed, she counted herself still a child, and Mr. Kelly, albeit a bachelor, was on the highroad to forty. Her hesitation sprang from shyness, and shyness yielded to the stronger desire for comfort. Mr. Kelly, returning one day from a round of visits among the poor, was told that somebody awaited him in his study; and, proceeding thither, he found himself face to face with Lettice. "How do you do?" he said kindly. "Is this a good-bye call? I have just been to your lodgings, but your sister was not well enough to see me. They tell me that you leave in three days." "On Thursday, if—" "If she is up to the mark, I suppose. Do you think her getting on?" "I don't know." Lettice looked at him with strange eyes. Did he mean what he said? When he knew that Cecilia could never recover! Or did he still think, like Felix, in spite of all, that she might get well? She did not remember, perhaps did not know, that patients even when marked for death have still their ups and downs, and often seem for a time to be improving. "Please, I have come to ask—? Would you mind telling me—?" "Yes? Would I mind telling you—what?" queried the clergyman. "Anything that is in my power. Would you not like to sit down?" Lettice shook her head, and stood firm, grasping the back of a chair. She was doubtful as to the extent of her own self-control, and flight would be easier thus. "What is it that you want me to tell you? Something to do with—Come, what is it?" encouragingly. "About—O you know," she said. "You know! About—" "I am afraid I do not." Mr. Kelly had had a busy day, and a mind full of other matters, including worries innumerable. Even the fruitless call upon Miss Anderson had failed to bring up with any vividness his last conversation with her, or his after-suspicion that Lettice might have heard something of it. He had the train of circumstances in possession: but at this moment, they lay in the background of his memory, not quite ready to hand. He looked dubiously with gentle eyes upon the child, repeating, "I am afraid that I do not. Cannot you explain a little further? Just a word or two more?" "You do, really. Please, please remember. That day when you said—said you would help me—if—"