The old housekeeper came in curtseying. She supposed Maria to be Lady Cleeve's daughter. Maria took off her travelling things, and was then ready to see Philip. Mr. Marjoram opened the chamber-door for her. She caught sight of a white face on the pillow, and two preternaturally large eyes, that stared at her as if she were a visitor from the dead. She bent her face to his. "Oh, my dear one!" she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I have found you at last!" And Maria made up her mind that she would not leave him again. The doctors said that very much would depend on good nursing. Maria felt that no one could nurse him as she could; at least, she would help to do it. The old gentleman approved of this so much that he clapped his hands in applause; he told Maria he wished she could be converted by some good fairy into his real daughter, and never go away from his house. On the morning after Philip's first wretched night in London, when he was somewhat restored to common sense, he resolved to return to Nullington and confess all his weakness and folly to his mother and to Mr. Tiplady. There was no help for it. But the thought struck him that he ought once more to go to the Hermandad office in the City, and to ascertain, if possible, whether the silver-mining prospect was absolutely hopeless. The place was still shut up, and Philip could hear nothing. In coming away he met a gentleman whom he had seen at The Lilacs, an acquaintance of Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie. This gentleman had also put some money into the mine, and had come down to the City on the same errand as Philip. "Lennox? No, I can't tell you where he is; I've not seen him here lately," he said, in answer to Philip's question. "Lennox is as hard hit as we are, I expect; worse, in fact. He may be staying with those friends he has at Wandsworth; he is there sometimes." "Can you give me their address? "Why, yes, I can. I spent an evening or two there with Lennox in the summer." Philip took the address, and went to Wandsworth. He found the people, but could not hear anything of Captain Lennox; they supposed him to be at Nullington. It was after leaving their house that Philip met with the accident. It is probable that his previous night's vigil, and the troubled state his mind was in, rendered him less quick and agile than he might otherwise have been. When Philip had gained sufficient strength, he poured into Maria Kettle's ear all the story of his folly and ruin, the latter culminating with these dreadful mines. He was yet so weak and ill that when he had done he cried like a child. Maria pressed his hand to her soft, warm cheek, and soothed and comforted him. "I think sometimes, Maria, that if you had not cast me off as you did all this would not have happened," he continued; "and yet how weak and foolish I have been all through, no one knows better than myself." "I will never leave you again," she murmured, with scarlet cheeks: and they sealed the promise with a kiss.