“I can see very well now,” she said, “thank you, Dolf. Don’t cry, dear. Father and mother will be comfortable again, to-morrow, and home will be comfortable too. A gentleman with him, is there!” Redlaw released his hold, as he listened. “I have feared, from the first moment,” he murmured to himself, “to meet her. There is a steady quality of goodness in her, that I dread to influence. I may be the murderer of what is tenderest and best within her bosom.” She was knocking at the door. “Shall I dismiss it as an idle foreboding, or still avoid her?” he muttered, looking uneasily around. She was knocking at the door again. “Of all the visitors who could come here,” he said, in a hoarse alarmed voice, turning to his companion, “this is the one I should desire most to avoid. Hide me!” The student opened a frail door in the wall, communicating where the garret-roof began to slope towards the floor, with a small inner room. Redlaw passed in hastily, and shut it after him. The student then resumed his place upon the couch, and called to her to enter. “Dear Mr. Edmund,” said Milly, looking round, “they told me there was a gentleman here.” “There is no one here but I.” “There has been some one?” “Yes, yes, there has been some one.” She put her little basket on the table, and went up to the back of the couch, as if to take the extended hand—but it was not there. A little surprised, in her quiet way, she leaned over to look at his face, and gently touched him on the brow. “Are you quite as well to-night? Your head is not so cool as in the afternoon.” “Tut!” said the student, petulantly, “very little ails me.” A little more surprise, but no reproach, was expressed in her face, as she withdrew to the other side of the table, and took a small packet of needlework from her basket. But she laid it down again, on second thoughts, and going noiselessly about the room, set everything exactly in its place, and in the neatest order; even to the cushions on the couch, which she touched with so light a hand, that he hardly seemed to know it, as he lay looking at the fire. When all this was done, and she had swept the hearth, she sat down, in her modest little bonnet, to her work, and was quietly busy on it directly. “It’s the new muslin curtain for the window, Mr. Edmund,” said Milly, stitching away as she talked. “It will look very clean and nice, though it costs very little, and will save your eyes, too, from the light. My William says the room should not be too light just now, when you are recovering so well, or the glare might make you giddy.” He said nothing; but there was something so fretful and impatient in his change of position, that her quick fingers stopped, and she looked at him anxiously. “The pillows are not comfortable,” she said, laying down her work and rising. “I will soon put them right.” “They are very well,” he answered. “Leave them alone, pray. You make so much of everything.”