‘Yes, I thought of you,’ replied Sara. ‘I hoped you would, though I do not deserve that you should. I must explain why I called. I am on my way home—to England, that is, with my sister. I have to go to look after my affairs, such as they are. You said, when you were talking at Trockenau, that you would allow me to call when I passed through Elberthal. Miss Ford—I——’ ‘You—yes?’ she asked, for he had paused. ‘I have fought a desperate battle with myself, to know whether I ought to do what I most desired to do—whether I ought to call upon you or not.’ ‘Whether you ought. Why not? I do not understand——’ ‘Hear me out!’ he exclaimed; and when he had spoken those words, he knew that he must tell her all. There was now no alternative, in honour and honesty, and he felt a kind of rejoicing, as if he had won a battle, nor paused any longer to reflect upon the means by which it had been gained. ‘And first,’ he added, rising, and standing before her in the window, looking into her upturned, wondering face, ‘first let me tell you, a great change has come over my whole life. It will never be what I had once hoped for. With my father’s death I have had to awaken to disagreeable facts. I find myself a ruined man.’ ‘Ruined?’ echoed Sara, vaguely, hanging on his words, which came rapidly now, and with a sort of terse, restrained impetuosity. ‘Ruined, Mr. Wellfield?’ ‘Exactly so. I will not trouble you by going into details of the matter. The simple fact is that I have been living under a delusion. I have never imagined myself in any other circumstances than those in which I have always been nurtured. One’s thoughts turn to the future sometimes, and in youth often and glowingly, I think. So did mine. I was no exception to the rule. Believe me, I never calculated on my father’s death. That I can say honestly——’ ‘No, I am sure of it.’ ‘But I should have been more than human had the thought never crossed my mind that after his death I should be richer than I had been—should have more at my disposal, and should be able more freely to follow the bent of my own tastes and desires. He never gave me the least hint that there was anything false in such an idea. I have told you of Wellfield—of my old home, to which I had hoped, more than I knew myself, to succeed. Lately I had thought of it far more than formerly, and had imagined myself very happy there. It is no longer mine. My father, it seems, sold the place years ago, and the estate with it, in consequence of his own money embarrassments. His speculations have turned out badly, it seems. No need to relate how. The money he received for his father’s house, and the estate they had lived upon, is gone—utterly gone. It was the shock of hearing suddenly of this which brought on the attack of which he died. He had time to tell me the worst—that I was houseless, homeless, it may be penniless—this he told me, advised me to settle things as well as I could, and then he died.’