It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town, beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind the blind. He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man came out; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend. ‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’ ‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’ ‘Yes–thanks!’ he answered, running up the stairs and finding himself at last in the subdued light of Nita’s room, hearing Avice’s voice exclaim: ‘Oh, Jerome! Thank God!’ He neither saw nor heeded anyone, but strode to Nita’s side, and knelt by her bed, controlling himself with a great effort. ‘Is it you, Jerome?’ said a feeble changed voice. Avice and Miss Shuttleworth had left them, the latter sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Don’t speak, Nita, my darling! I am here, I shall never leave you till you are well again!’ he murmured. ‘I must speak, Jerome. I want to say–you will love my baby–oh!’ She began to weep pitifully. ‘Hush, hush!’ he implored her. ‘Nita, hush! Let me love _you_, my child.’ ‘And you will not let him forget that _I_ was his mother, and should have loved him dearly if I had stayed with him,’ she went on, in a voice ever fainter and fainter. ‘You shall teach him yourself, my wife. Ah, Nita, you must not leave me! God knows how I need you and your love and your forgiveness!’ ‘Jerome,’ with a sudden flicker of life and strength, ‘do you love me a little?’ ‘As God is above us, Nita, I love you dearly,’ he answered; and he spoke what was the truth at the moment, at least. ‘I am glad that I was able to speak to you,’ she said. ‘But if—’ These were the last words. When, alarmed by the long silence, Avice and Miss Shuttleworth entered the room, they found Wellfield kneeling still beside his dead wife, holding her cold hands to his breast, and motionless almost as herself. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. CAUGHT.