"Wrong?" cried the doctor, catching her hands, and kissing them again and again. "Nothing about him, my dear child. He is better--much better. The trouble--forgive me for saying it to you--is a scandal about that scoundrel--double scoundrel--Prayle." "And my husband?" "Is better--much better." Lady Scarlett's hands joined, and were raised towards heaven as she sank upon her knees motionless, but for a low sob that forced its way from her breast from time to time. Doctor Scales stood gazing down at her for a few moments, and then stooping low, he laid his hand reverently upon her head. This brought her back from her rapt state of thankful prayer, and she rose and caught his hand. "I have been so rude and harsh," he blundered out. "Can you forgive me?" "Forgive? You, who have devoted yourself to him I love? My husband's dearest friend has never yet truly read his poor wife's heart." She said this with a quiet womanly dignity that humbled the doctor to the very dust, and his voice was broken as he replied gently: "I never have--I have been very blind." He said no more, but went slowly to the door. There he turned. "Once more," he said: "Scarlett is much better. It was only to save you from pain that he sent for Miss Raleigh. That is all." Volume 2, Chapter XIII. EVENTS AT A TERMINUS. There was a deeply interested gathering in one of the large offices of the Waterloo Station, where a clerk in his shirt-sleeves was seated beneath a gas-jet making entries, what time two porters, also in shirt-sleeves, and by the light of other gas-jets, seemed to be engaged in a game of "Catch." They were, however, not displaying their deftness with balls, but with small packets, parcels, baskets, bundles of fishing-rods, and what seemed to be carefully done-up articles fresh from tradespeople's shops. The game seemed to consist of one porter taking a packet from a great basket upon wheels, and saying something before he jerked it rapidly to the other porter, who also said something and deposited the packet in another basket on wheels; while, apparently, the clerk at the desk where the gas-jet fluttered and whistled as it burned, carefully noted the score in a book. Further inspection, however, showed the casual observer that the men were not at play, but busy manipulating parcels and preparing them for despatch to their various destinations. The business came to a standstill all at once, as a couple of guards just off duty, and an inspector and ticket-collector, came sauntering in, chatting loudly one to the other about some incident that had just taken place upon the platform.