"If Rawdie had not been there last night." But Rawdie had been there-- there always was something. As to the mill, there were flashes of certainty as to the right course, and a word or a kindly deed of old Cooper's just gave strength to put them in practice. The sun struggled through the fog yesterday, and raised his spirits; the day before there was a letter from Cuthbert. Sometimes he dreamed of Florella, or the sense that she was "helping" pressed warm upon his soul. And now there was the connected thought of all these rescuing facts. But the source from which they came was veiled. He could not "feel" good as he "felt" evil. He could not trust himself to think of the gun in the gun-cupboard at the side of the bookcase, of the doctor's medicine, of which too large a dose would be so easy--of the brandy in the cellar-- which would drown all this agony or give strength to defy it. These images of escape pressed on him like living souls. Either would be so easy. Pray? Yes, but in such moments, before the prayer is offered, the victory must be won. The will of steel that had endured so much was breaking now. Guy got up and thought that he would look at that gun, which had been unused all the autumn. The drops were upstairs, and the brandy was in the cellar; but the gun was in the very room. He went over to the cupboard; but he was dizzy, and his hand shook a little; the key did not turn very easily. He fumbled with it. If he shot himself, what would happen to his double? Why--_that_ would be gone out of the world with himself--and the world would go on without him. Would Florella ever learn to paint blue harebells in the sun? The dancing flowers shone and smiled before his mental vision. The key turned in his hand; but he turned it back again. "I can bear it--another day," he thought, as he leaned against the bookcase, with his hand still on the key. Suddenly Rawdie burst into loud barking; the door bell pealed through the empty house. Guy started away from the cupboard, the room door opened, and a telegram was brought in. "_Don't like your last note. Coming to you for Christmas; arrive 9:30. Staunton_." When the door was shut again, Guy flung the key of the gun-cupboard into the fire, and fell down on his knees and gave thanks. Assuredly it was not himself that had saved him. When Cuthbert came, after a long day of travel from the far west, he found supper ready, lights bright and fire warm, and Guy with a welcome that was beyond words, quiet and even cheerful, but so white and worn, that his friend rejoiced in the sudden impulse that had induced him to brave his sisters' wrath, and give up Christmas at home to come to him. "Why are you alone," he said. "Where is Godfrey?"