‘Sit down,’ he said, with quiet authority. ‘You must not waste your strength. Mr. Meredith, I am going to prescribe for your daughter.’ ‘Do so—do so!’ said Meredith, with gentle satisfaction in his tone. ‘She needs more care than I can give.’ Roma certainly looked less white and shaken after she had swallowed the potion Tor mixed for her. The shock and strain that had tried her powers so sorely that day, had begun to make itself felt, and it was time that help should come. When Tor came round to his old position at the bedside, he fancied that Meredith’s face had changed somewhat for the better. Either the extreme ghastliness had passed off a little, or else his eyes had grown used to it. ‘You had better sleep if you can, sir,’ suggested Tor persuasively. ‘I will sit beside you, if that will be any satisfaction. Sleep will restore you better than anything;’ and he drew up a chair and prepared to follow out his own part of the programme. ‘Stop!’ said Meredith, slowly and softly, as if speaking were still something of an effort; ‘sleep can wait. Sleep will come later. First I must set my mind at rest.’ ‘Will not you be able to do that better after you have slept?’ suggested Tor, who had a distinct dread of what he felt was coming. ‘No. I cannot sleep yet. Who knows if I shall ever wake again in this world? I must set my house in order before I go.’ No response was made to this speech by either watcher. Tor fancied that the danger could not be imminent whilst the patient could talk in this strain. He fancied that men who really were dying did not make set speeches to that effect; but Roma’s face quivered pitifully, and it needed all her strong self-repression to keep under her emotion. Tor felt a very great compassion for her in her loneliness and devotion. All the chivalry of his nature woke up within him, and urged him to do what he could to lighten the load which lay so heavily upon her. ‘Philip Debenham,’ said Michael Meredith slowly, ‘I withdraw my veto. You have my consent to your wish.’ Naturally, Tor was at a loss to comprehend the drift of this remark. All he could say was: ‘I am greatly obliged to you, sir.’ Then came a pause. Meredith seemed to expect the young man to proceed. Tor was trying hard to remember what it was to which the blind man alluded—what veto he could possibly have laid upon any expressed wish of his. He had been quite prepared to hear some allusion to Meredith’s wish respecting his marriage with Roma, but not unnaturally he failed to recognise the old subject in its new guise. ‘Young hearts should not be severed. I have been selfish in my wish to keep my daughter to myself. Take her now, Philip Debenham. I yield her up to your care. Take her with my blessing, and be a good husband to her, for you have won a pearl amongst women!’