Lucy went down immediately to the Isle of Wight, and there engaged rooms in the house of a woman who had formerly served her at Hamlyn's Purlieu. It was midwinter, and a cold drizzle was falling when she waited for him at the prison gates. Three years had passed since they had parted. She took him in her arms and kissed him silently. Her heart was too full for words. A carriage was waiting for them, and she drove to the lodging-house; breakfast was ready, and Lucy had seen that good things which he liked should be ready for him to eat. Fred Allerton looked wistfully at the clean table-cloth, and at the flowers and the dainty scones; but he shook his head. He did not speak, and the tears ran slowly down his cheeks. He sank wearily into a chair. Lucy tried to induce him to eat; she brought him a cup of tea, but he put it away. He looked at her with haggard, bloodshot eyes. 'Give me the flowers,' he muttered. They were his first words. There was a large bowl of daffodils in the middle of the table, and she took them out of the water, deftly dried their stalks, and gave them to him. He took them with trembling hands and pressed them to his heart, then he buried his face in them, and the tears ran afresh, bedewing the yellow flowers. Lucy put her arm around her father's neck and placed her cheek against his. 'Don't, father,' she whispered. 'You must try and forget.' He leaned back, exhausted, and the pretty flowers fell at his feet. 'You know why they've let me out?' he said. She kissed him, but did not answer. 'I'm so glad that we're together again,' she murmured. 'It's because I'm going to die.' 'No, you mustn't die. In a little while you'll get strong again. You have many years before you, and you'll be very happy.' He gave her a long, searching look; and when he spoke, his voice had a hollowness in it that was strangely terrifying. 'Do you think I want to live?' The pain seemed almost greater than Lucy could bear, and for a moment she had to remain silent so that her voice might grow steady. 'You must live for my sake.' 'Don't you hate me?' he asked. 'No, I love you more than I ever did. I shall never cease to love you.' 'I suppose no one would marry you while I was in prison.' His remark was so inconsequent that Lucy found nothing to say. He gave a bitter, short laugh. 'I ought to have shot myself. Then people would have forgotten all about it, and you might have had a chance. Why didn't you marry Bobbie?' 'I haven't wanted to marry.' He was so tired that he could only speak a little at a time, and now he closed his eyes. Lucy thought that he was dozing, and began to pick up the fallen flowers. But he noticed what she was doing. 'Let me hold them,' he moaned, with the pleading quaver of a sick child. As she gave them to him once more, he took her hands and began to caress them.