“She returned from Barton last night, seeming even more depressed than when she left town,” said Mrs. Horneck. “But who could fancy that her condition was so low as to be liable to such complete prostration as was brought about by my son's announcement of this news about Signor Baretti?” “It prostrated her?” “Why, when Charles read out an account of the unhappy affair which is printed in one of the papers, Mary listened breathlessly, and when he read out the name of the man who was killed, she sank from her chair to the floor in a swoon, just as though the man had been one of her friends, instead of one whom none of us could ever possibly have met.” “And now?” “Now she is lying on the sofa in the drawingroom awaiting your coming with strange impatience--I told her that you had been here yesterday and also the day before. She has been talking very strangely since she awoke from her faint--accusing herself of bringing her friends into trouble, but evermore crying out, 'Why does he not come--why does he not come to tell me all that there is to be told?' She meant you, dear Dr. Goldsmith. She has somehow come to think of you as able to soothe her in this curious imaginary distress, from which she is suffering quite as acutely as if it were a real sorrow. Oh, I was quite overcome when I saw the poor child lying as if she were dead before my eyes! Her condition is the more sad, as I have reason to believe that Colonel Gwyn means to call to-day.” “Never mind Colonel Gwyn for the present, madam,” said Goldsmith, “Will you have the goodness to lead me to her room? Have I not told you that I am confident that I can restore her to health?” “Ah, Dr. Goldsmith, if you could!--ah, if you only could! But alas, alas!” He followed her upstairs to the drawingroom where he had had his last interview with Mary. Even before the door was opened the sound of sobbing within the room came to his ears. “Now, my dear child,” said her mother with an affectation of cheerfulness, “you see that Dr. Goldsmith has kept his word. He has come to his Jessamy Bride.” The girl started up, but the struggle she had to do so showed him most pathetically how weak she was. “Ah, he is come he is come!” she cried. “Leave him with me, mother; he has much to tell me.” “Yes.” said he; “I have much.” Mrs. Horneck left the room after kissing the girl's forehead. She had hardly closed the door before Mary caught Goldsmith's hand spasmodically in both her own--he felt how they were trembling-as she cried-- “The terrible thing that has happened! He is dead--you know it, of course? Oh, it is terrible--terrible! But the letters!--they will be found upon him or at the place where he lived, and it will be impossible to keep my secret longer. Will his friends--he had evil friends, I know--will they print them, do you think? Ah, I see by your face that you believe they will print the letters, and I shall be undone--undone.”