He lay staring at the grapes, while excitement quickened every pulse. Ethel had sent them--they were from Ethel--Ethel had sent them--through his brain, to and fro, boisterously, the thought danced. And then, he started to review the past, dispassionately, critically, as if it were another man’s; and soon, every detail, as he lingered on it, seemed to disentangle itself, till it all achieved a curious simplification. The five years at Scarsdale became all blurred: they resembled an eventless waste-level, through which he had been mechanically trudging. But the other day, it seemed, he was with her--he and she betrothed to one another. A dozen scenes passed before his eyes: with a flush of hot, intolerable shame, he saw himself, clumsy, uncouth, devoid of personal charm, viewing her bluntly, selfishly through the cumbrous medium of his own personality. And her attitude was clear too: the glamour, woven of habitual, sentimental reminiscence, faded, as it were, from her figure, and she appeared to him simply and beautifully human; living, vibrating, frail. _Now_ he knew the meaning of that last letter of hers--the promptings of each phrase; the outpourings of his ideals, enthusiasms, aspirations--callow, blatant, crude, he named them bitterly--had scared her: she had felt herself unequal to the strain of the life he had offered her: in her loveable, womanish frailty, she had grown to dread it; and he realised all that she had suffered before she had brought herself to end it--the long struggles with doubt and suspense. The veil that had clogged his view was lifted: he knew her now: he could read the writing on her soul: he was securely equipped for loving her; and now, she had passed out of his life, beyond recall. In his blindness he had not recognised her, and had driven her away. How came it that to-day, for the first time, all these things were made clear? The clock struck; and while he was listening to its fading note, the door-handle clicked briskly, and the doctor walked in. He talked cheerily of the crops damaged by the storm, and the sound of his voice seemed to vibrate harshly through the room. “There’s a heavy shower coming up,” he remarked. “By the way, you’re quite alone here, Mr. Burkett, I believe. Have you no relatives whom you would like to send for?” “No--no one,” Alec answered. “Mrs. Parkin will look after me.” “Yes--but you see,” and he came and sat down by the bedside, “I don’t say there’s any immediate danger; but you’ve had a very near touch of it. Now isn’t there any old friend?--you ought not to be alone like this.” He spoke the last words with emphasis. Alec shook his head. His gaze had fallen on the basket of grapes again: he was incoherently musing of Ethel. “Mind, I don’t say there’s any immediate danger,” he heard the man repeating; “but I must tell you that you’re not altogether out of the wood yet.” He paused. “You ought to be prepared for the worst, Mr. Burkett.”