"I heard that Chris was ill," he said. "They told me that she was dying. And I could not keep away. And now I have come too late. Oh, Chris, Chris!" He fell on his knees by the side of the coffin, his frame shaken by tearless sobs. Enid bit her lips to keep back the words that rose to them. She would have given much to have spoken the truth. But at any hazard she must remain silent. She waited till the paroxysm of grief had passed away, then she touched the intruder gently on the shoulder. "There is great danger for you in this house," she said. "What do I care for danger when Chris lies yonder?" "But, dear Frank, there are others to consider besides yourself. There is your mother, for instance. Oh, you ought not to have come here to-night. If your father knew!" "My father? He would be the last person in the world to know. And what cares he about anything, so long as he has his prints and his paintings? He has no feelings, no heart, no soul, I may say." "Frank, you must go at once. Do you know that Reginald Henson is here? He has ears like a hare; it will be nothing less than a miracle unless he hears your voice. And then--" The young man was touched at last. The look of grief died out of his eyes and a certain terror filled them. "I think that I should have come in any case," he whispered. "I don't want to bring any further trouble upon you, Enid, but I wanted to see the last of her. I came here, and some of the dogs remembered me. If not, I might have had no occasion to trouble you. And I won't stay, seeing that Henson is here. Let me have something to remember her by; let me look into her room for a moment. If you only knew how I loved her! And you look as if you had no grief at all." Enid started guiltily. She had quite forgotten her _role_ for the time. Indeed, there was something unmistakably like relief on her face as she heard the porter's bell ring from the lodge to the house. Williams shuffled away, muttering that he would be more useful in the house than out of it just now, but a glance from Enid subdued him. Presently there came the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. "They have come for the--the coffin," Enid murmured. "Frank, it would be best for you to go. Go upstairs, if you like; you know the way. Only, don't stay here." The young man went off dreamily. A heavy grief dulled and blinded his senses; he walked along like one who wanders in his sleep. Christiana's room door was open and a lamp was there. There were dainty knick-knacks on the dressing-table, a vase or two of faded flowers--everything that denotes the presence of refined and gracious womanhood.