Dinner was eaten in silence. When it was over, Lizzie returned to her own room. Miss Cooper went home, and Mrs. Ford went to her son. Lizzie heard the firm low click of the lock as she closed the door. Why did she lock it? There was something fatal in the silence that followed. The plot of her little tragedy thickened. Be it so: she would act her part with the rest. For the second time in her experience, her mind was lightened by the intervention of Mrs. Ford. Before the scorn of her own conscience, (which never came,) before Jack's deepest reproach, she was ready to bow down,--but not before that long-faced Nemesis in black silk. The leaven of resentment began to work. She leaned back in her chair, and folded her arms, brave to await results. But before long she fell asleep. She was aroused by a knock at her chamber-door. The afternoon was far gone. Miss Dawes stood without. "Elizabeth, Mr. John wants very much to see you, with his love. Come down very gently: his mother is lying down. Will you sit with him while I take my dinner?--Better? Yes, ever so much." Lizzie betook herself with trembling haste to Jack's bedside. He was propped up with pillows. His pale cheeks were slightly flushed. His eyes were bright. He raised himself, and, for such feeble arms, gave Lizzie a long, strong embrace. "I've not seen you all day, Lizzie," said he. "Where have you been?" "Dear Jack, they wouldn't let me come near you. I begged and prayed. And I wanted so to go to you in the army; but I couldn't. I wish, I wish I had!" "You wouldn't have liked it, Lizzie. I'm glad you didn't. It's a bad, bad place." He lay quietly, holding her hands and gazing at her. "Can I do anything for you, dear?" asked the young girl. "I would work my life out. I'm so glad you're better!" It was some time before Jack answered,-- "Lizzie," said he, at last, "I sent for you to look at you.--You are more wondrously beautiful than ever. Your hair is brown,--like--like nothing; your eyes are blue; your neck is white. Well, well!" He lay perfectly motionless, but for his eyes. They wandered over her with a kind of peaceful glee, like sunbeams playing on a statue. Poor Ford lay, indeed, not unlike an old wounded Greek, who at falling dusk has crawled into a temple to die, steeping the last dull interval in idle admiration of sculptured Artemis. "Ah, Lizzie, this is already heaven!" he murmured. "It will be heaven when you get well," whispered Lizzie. He smiled into her eyes:-- "You say more than you mean. There should be perfect truth between us. Dear Lizzie, I am not going to get well. They are all very much mistaken, I am going to die. I've done my work, Death makes up for everything. My great pain is in leaving you. But you, too, will die one of these days; remember that. In all pain and sorrow, remember that." Lizzie was able to reply only by the tightening grasp of her hands.