“He lived just long enough,” she resumed, “to see how miserably his scheme had failed. I had married to please him and to help the family. Well, my sister’s husband, with no help at all from me or my position, got an excellent appointment in Ceylon, so there again the scheme proved useless. Three years ago my mother went out to live with her there, she could do nothing to make me less miserable, and it only pained her to see my unhappiness. She realises things less at a distance, and now she is too much of an invalid to bear the return voyage. A year ago they sent me back Charlie, Clara’s little boy, and he has been a great comfort. Except for him I am quite alone.” “I want you to understand,” said Macneillie, “that it is still my highest happiness to serve you. It is quite possible that in the difficult position you are in you may need the help of a friend.” “Do I deserve your friendship?” she said questioningly; “you stood aloof all these years--you would not be my friend then, though I asked you.” “If I had been a worse man I should have accepted the place you offered in your company,” said Macneillie; “or perhaps if I had been a better man, I could entirely have effaced myself and dared to take such a perilous post. But as things were, it seemed best to go right away. Did you not understand?” “Yes, yes,” she said in a choked voice. “I understood--and honoured you. Is it only seven years since you and I acted together? It seems to me a life-time. All that has gone between has been a sort of dreadful nightmare. And the worst of it was the feeling that I had deserved the misery, had deliberately chosen the low level and fought against you when you tried to drag me up. Oh, it is so long since I had a real friend to talk to--may I tell you all?” “Of course,” he said, gently. “Why not?”