"Perhaps, it isn't his fault. She kept him at a distance terribly, and no wonder with the troubles she's had; but of course he can't understand all that, being impetuous, like my Jo-si-ah was, and I dessay it will all come right at last. Now, what are they lumping down the stairs, making a noise, and that poor child so ill?" She threw her work on the table, got up softly, and, just as there was a fresh bump and a whispering, she opened the door to find Isaac and Eliza standing over a box which they had just set down in the passage beside another, while Isaac in plain clothes and Eliza with her bonnet in her hand started at seeing the visitor. "Why, highty-tighty, who's going away?" cried Mrs Barclay wonderingly. Eliza glanced at Isaac, who cleared his throat. "The fact is, ma'am, this young person and I have come to the conclusion that seeing how we suffered from arrears, and what goings on there are here, Mr Denville's isn't the service in which we care to stop any longer." "Oh," said Mrs Barclay; "and have you told Mr Denville you are going?" "Well, ma'am; no, ma'am. We have thought it is not necessary under the circumstances, and--" "Nor yet, Miss Claire?" "No, ma'am; she is too busy." "Then just you take those boxes up again, young man, and take off that finery, and put on your livery," said Mrs Barclay in a low angry voice. "Now, no words. You do as I say--there take those boxes up." The tone of voice, manner, and a hint about the wages had their effect. Isaac and Eliza glanced at each other, and took the boxes away without a word, Isaac coming back in livery a quarter of an hour later to tell Mrs Barclay that "that soldier" was at the back door. Mrs Barclay started and followed Isaac, to stare in wonder at the fine soldierly young fellow, who eagerly asked her a score of questions about Claire and May, and, declining to be questioned in turn, hurried away with troubled mien. Volume Three, Chapter IX. MAY BEGINS TO SEE. "Claire." It was the faintest whisper of a call, but she to whom it was addressed heard it, and leaned over the bed to lay a cool hand upon the little wistful face looking up from the pillow. "How long have I been lying here, Claire?" "Hush, dear; don't talk," said Claire tenderly, "you are still so weak." "Yes, but I must know. If you do not answer my questions, I shall fret and die sooner than I should do if you told me." "Six weeks, dear." "Six weeks!" sighed May; "and it seems like a dream. Since I seemed to wake up the day before yesterday, I have been thinking about it all, and I recollect everything now." She spoke with perfect calmness, and as she went on, Claire's brow wrinkled. "Poor old dad! How fond he is of me, and how ready to forgive me," she went on quietly. "Has Frank Burnett been?" Claire shook her head. "Not once?" "No."