'But how did you get so ill, Lucy?' Lucy was silent a bit. Then she said: 'Sit down close here. My voice is so bad still.' Dora sat close to her pillow, and bent over, stroking her hands with emotion. The fright of her entrance was still upon her. 'Well, you know,' she said in a hoarse whisper, 'father found out about me and Mr. Grieve--I don't know how, but it was one morning. I was sitting in here, and he came in all white, with his eyes glaring. I thought he was going to kill me, and I was that frightened, I watched my chance, and ran out of the door and along into Mill Gate as fast as I could to get away from him; and then I thought I saw him coming after me, and I ran on across the bridge and up Chapel Street a long, long way. I was in a terrible fright, and mad with him besides. I declared to myself I'd never come back here. Well, it was pouring with rain, and I got wet through. Then I didn't know where to go, and what do you think I did? I just got into the Broughton tram, and rode up and down all day! I had a shilling or two in my pocket, and I waited and dodged a bit at either end, so the conductor shouldn't find out. And that was what did it--sitting in my wet things all day. I didn't think anything about dinner, I was that mad. But when it got dark, I thought of that girl--you know her, too--Minnie Park, that lives with her brother and sells fents, up Cannon Gate. And somehow I dragged up there--I thought I'd ask her to take me in. And what happened I don't rightly know. I suppose I was took with a faint before I could explain anything, for I was shivering and pretty bad when I got there. Anyway, she put me in a cab and brought me home; and I don't remember anything about it, for I was queer in the head very soon after they got me to bed. Oh, I _was_ bad! It was just a squeak, '--said Lucy, her voice dropping from exhaustion; but her eyes glittered in her pinched face with a curious triumph, difficult to decipher. Dora kissed her tenderly, and entreated her not to talk; she was sure it was bad for her. But Lucy, as usual, would not be managed. She held herself quite still, gathering breath and strength; then she began again: 'If I'd died, perhaps _he'd_ have been sorry. You know who I mean. It was all along of him. And father 'll never forgive me--never. He looks quite different altogether somehow. Dora! you're not to tell him anything till I've got right away. I think--I think--I _hate_ him!' And suddenly her beautiful brown eyes opened wide and fierce. Dora hung over her, a strange, mingled passion in her look. 'You poor little thing!' she said slowly, with a deep emphasis, answering not the unreal Lucy of those last words, but the real one, so pitifully evident beneath.