"Roger!" I said to my husband. "We've never told him!" "Let us go now," he returned. We were at the moment close to North Crescent. After a few thundering raps at the door, the landlady came down. Percivale rushed up, and in a few minutes returned with Roger. They got into the cab. A great talk followed; but I heard hardly any thing, or rather I heeded nothing. I only recollect that Roger was very indignant with his brother for having been out all night without him to help. "I never thought of you, Roger," said Percivale. "So much the worse!" said Roger. "No," said Mr. Blackstone. "A thousand things make us forget. I dare say your brother all but forgot God in the first misery of his loss. To have thought of you, and not to have told you, would have been another thing." A few minutes after, we stopped at our desolate house, and the cabman was dismissed with one of the sovereigns from the Blue Posts. I wondered afterwards what manner of man or woman had changed it there. A dim light was burning in the drawing-room. Percivale took his pass-key, and opened the door. I hurried in, and went straight to my own room; for I longed to be alone that I might weep--nor weep only. I fell on my knees by the bedside, buried my face, and sobbed, and tried to pray. But I could not collect my thoughts; and, overwhelmed by a fresh access of despair, I started again to my feet. Could I believe my eyes? What was that in the bed? Trembling as with an ague,--in terror lest the vision should by vanishing prove itself a vision,--I stooped towards it. I heard a breathing! It was the fair hair and the rosy face of my darling--fast asleep--without one trace of suffering on her angelic loveliness! I remember no more for a while. They tell me I gave a great cry, and fell on the floor. When I came to myself I was lying on the bed. My husband was bending over me, and Roger and Mr. Blackstone were both in the room. I could not speak, but my husband understood my questioning gaze. "Yes, yes, my love," he said quietly: "she's all right--safe and sound, thank God!" And I did thank God. Mr. Blackstone came to the bedside, with a look and a smile that seemed to my conscience to say, "I told you so." I held out my hand to him, but could only weep. Then I remembered how we had vexed Roger, and called him. "Dear Roger," I said, "forgive me, and go and tell Miss Clare." I had some reason to think this the best amends I could make him. "I will go at once," he said. "She will be anxious." "And I will go to my sermon," said Mr. Blackstone, with the same quiet smile. They shook hands with me, and went away. And my husband and I rejoiced over our first-born. CHAPTER XXV. ITS SEQUEL.