"You may say that again, Philip," said Lucy, nestling to him, and looking up through a veil of tears; "but it isn't a bit true. I'm afraid I was very, very weak, and proud and foolish, and I feel now as if I could never forgive myself for much that I have done." "I'll forgive you, and you shall forgive me," said Oldroyd. "And now I don't think I need go on speaking in parables. I only wanted to point out the difference. Our trouble arranged itself without the help of friends. That of someone else ought soon to be set right, with two such energetic people as ourselves to help." "But sometimes interference makes matters worse," sighed Lucy. "Yes; because those who see about these matters are ignorant pretenders. Now, we are both duly qualified practitioners, Lucy, and, I think, can settle the matter right off, and cure them both." "But how? It is so dreadful." "Lucy, Lucy!" It was a sharp, agonised call, as of one in extreme anguish, and, startled by the cry, Lucy sprang up and ran towards the house, closely followed by Oldroyd. "Mamma, dear mamma, what is it?" she cried. "Your brother. Oh, thank heaven, Mr Oldroyd, you are here." "What is it?" cried Oldroyd, catching Mrs Alleyne's white and trembling hand. "I--I went--I ventured to go into the observatory just now, my son seemed so quiet, and--oh, heaven, what have I done that I should suffer this?" It was a wild appeal, uttered by one in deep agony of spirit, as Mrs Alleyne reeled, and would have fallen, had not Oldroyd caught her in his arms, and gently lowered her on the carpet. "Only fainting," he whispered. "Let her lie; loosen her dress, and bathe her face. I'll run on to your brother." Satisfied that he was not wanted there, and, giving Lucy an encouraging nod, Oldroyd ran quickly along the passage to the observatory, whose door he found open, but almost in total darkness, for the shutters were carefully closed, and the shaded lamp gave so little light, save in one place on the far side of the table, that he was compelled to cross the great room cautiously, for fear of falling over some one or other of the philosophical instruments, whose places the student often changed. On reaching the table, he could see that Alleyne was lying prone upon the well-worn rug before his chair; and, making his way to the window, Oldroyd tore open the shutters, admitting a burst of sunshine, and completely changing the aspect of the great dusty place. Going back to the table, he took in the position at a glance. There were bottles there, in a little rack such a chemist would use, and one stood alone. He caught it up, removed the stopper, then put it down with an impatient "Pish!" and was turning to the prostrate man, when, previously hidden by a book, another stopper caught his eye, and, drawing in his breath with a loud hiss, he sprang to Alleyne's side, to find that the fingers of his right hand tightly clasped a small cut-glass bottle, the one to which the stopper belonged.