"I fancy he cannot help staying there at present. Has he told you he is ill?" She glanced quickly round at me. "Has he told _you_ that he is so?" "Yes, Blanche; he has. He is too ill to travel." She paused for a moment, and then tossed back her pretty hair with a scornful hand. "And you believed him! Anything for an excuse. He is no more ill than I am, Charles; rely upon that." "But I am certain----" "Don't go on," she interrupted, tapping her dainty black satin slipper on the carpet; a petulant movement to which Blanche was given, even as a child. "If you have come for the purpose of whitening my husband to me, as papa is always doing. I will not listen to you." "You will not listen to any sort of reasoning whatever. I see that, my dear." "Reasoning, indeed!" she retorted. "Say sophistry." "Listen for an instant, Blanche; consider this one little item: I believe Lord Level to be ill, confined to his bed with low fever, as he tells me; you refuse to believe it; you say he is well. Now, considering that he expects us both to be at Marshdale to-morrow, can you not perceive how entirely, ridiculously void of purpose it would be for him to say he is seriously ill if he is not so?" "I don't care," said my young lady. "He is deeper than any fox." "Blanche, my opinion is, and you are aware of it, that you misjudge your husband. Upon one or two points I _know_ you do. But I did not come here to discuss these unpleasant topics--you are in error there, you see. I came upon a widely different matter: to disclose something to you that will very greatly distress you, and I am grieved to be obliged to do it." The words changed her mood. She looked half frightened. "Oh!" she burst forth, before I had time to say another word. "Is it my husband? You say he is ill! He is not dead?" "My dear, be calm. It is not about your husband at all. It is about some one else, though, who is very ill--Tom Heriot." Grieved she no doubt was; but the relief that crept into her face, tone and attitude proved that the one man was little to her compared with the other, and that she loved her husband yet with an impassioned love. By degrees, softening the facts as much as possible, I told the tale. Of Tom's apprehension about the time of her marriage; his trial which followed close upon it; his conviction, and departure for a penal settlement; his escape; his return to England; his concealments to evade detection; his illness; and his present state. Blanche shivered and cried as she listened, and finally fell upon her knees, and buried her face in the cushions of the chair. "And is there _no_ hope for him, Charles?" she said, looking up after a while. "My dear, there is no hope. And, under the circumstances, it is happier for him to die than to continue to live. But he would like to see you, Blanche." "Poor Tom! Poor Tom! Can we go to him now--this evening?" "Yes; it is what I came to propose. It is the best time. He----" "Shall I order the carriage?"