'It never struck me in that way before. I have never gone farther than thinking what I ought to do so as to secure her against danger. If it would break her heart to part from me, it would be murder to let her go. Fancy my taking up a knife and killing Marie! Fancy my standing before her, and firing a loaded pistol at her head! Fancy the look in her eyes when she saw my arm upraised to strike, extended to fire! Suppose I said to her, this evening in the drawing-room,--"Marie, I have made up my mind that, owing to scruples of mine, you and I must be strangers for evermore. I leave Stratford to see you no more." I think she would laugh at first. But when she found out I was in earnest? Oh, I cannot look at her face as I see it now. No, no, no! I have no right to break her heart; and if she will marry me, nothing earthly shall induce me to give her up. Fancy her calling after me, saying, "George, will you not come back to me?" Oh, God, I cannot even think of it. I will not think of it. I am glad I have this business in the town. It will kill time and thought until I get back and see my own love once again.' He arose, and went into the hall. As he was putting on his overcoat, O'Connor tripped downstairs. 'Good morning, O'Connor. How is your mistress now?' 'She is in a nice quiet sleep now, sir.' George beckoned her into the parlour, which was now deserted. 'Was Miss Gordon very bad last night, O'Connor?' 'She was bad enough, sir. I slept in the dressing-room; and about an hour after she went to bed I heard her saying, "Don't! Oh don't! Don't send me away!" I thought she was awake at the time, so I went to her, and spoke to her. But she was fast asleep. I came out, and sat in her room; and all through the night she never stopped waking and falling asleep again; and as soon as she fell asleep she began moaning and crying in her sleep. I was wondering, sir, maybe Miss Osborne and you and Mr Nevill and my mistress went to some very mournful play in London by Shakespeare, and that coming into his native air, sir, may have made the mournfulness of the play come against her all at once; for I never saw Miss Gordon like that before.' 'Ay,' answered Osborne vaguely. 'O'Connor, I want you to wait a minute, while I scribble a few lines for her.' He took a pencil and wrote,-- 'My Darling Marie,--I have no clear recollection of how that scene in the conservatory ended. O'Connor tells me you are now sleeping. God bless you! I have to go out on business. We shall meet at luncheon. I can hardly bear to leave the house where my only love is. I hope I did not say or do anything very bad in that conservatory. Whatever I then said or did, believe me, my darling Marie, nothing shall ever separate Marie from 'George.' He folded it up, and handed it to the maid, saying-- 'Now, O'Connor, give her this when she awakes.' Then he walked into the hall, put on his hat and went out.