"Yes, he has been very much troubled about it. He had set his heart upon this marriage, and on its celebration while he is well enough to be present. God knows how long he may have strength enough to bear even as much fatigue as that. He is very angry with Hilda." "He must not be angry with her. It is my sin that has caused this misery. I have sown the wind, and I have reaped the whirlwind. You are very good to bear with me in my trouble, Dora." She was infinitely patient with him, sitting by him while he took a sandwich and a tumbler of claret; soothing him in his indignation against Lady Valeria; listening to his remorseful confession of wrong-doing in the past; bearing with that most tedious of all human creatures, an unhappy lover. But she had a sense of relief when he was gone, and she heard the dog-cart wheels rolling along the avenue. Her thoughts of late had been so concentrated upon her husband and his suffering that it was painful to be obliged to think of anything outside that sick-room and its sadness. Bothwell found only disappointment at Plymouth. The little maid-servant had been thoroughly coached by Mdlle. Duprez before she left, and had been warned against any mention of Miss Heathcote. She faced Bothwell with a stolid countenance, prepared to commit any enormity in the way of false statements; for she was one of those faithful creatures who, although the soul of truthfulness upon their own account, will lie valiantly to serve those they love. She said that Mdlle. Duprez had gone away on business. "Was she alone?" asked Bothwell. "Yes, sir." "You are sure of that?" "Quite sure, sir." "But she was to meet some one at the station, perhaps. There was some one going away from Plymouth with her." "I think not, sir. I feel sure Mdlle. Duprez would have told me if there had been any one going with her." "When was Miss Heathcote last here?" asked Bothwell abruptly. "You know Miss Heathcote--a pupil--a young lady from Bodmin?" The girl put on a countenance of profound thought, as if she were calling upon her memory for a stupendous effort, looking back into the night of ages. "I'm sure I can't say, sir; but it was a long time ago--quite early in the summer." "You are sure she was not here yesterday?" "O yes, sir. Mademoiselle left Plymouth a week ago, and nobody called yesterday." "O, she left Plymouth a week ago, did she, and nobody called yesterday?" repeated Bothwell, with a despairing helplessness which smote the slavey's heart. It seemed a cruel thing to deceive such a nice-looking, outspoken gentleman--about his young lady, too--for it was evident to Mary Jane that Miss Heathcote must have been keeping company with this gentleman, and that she had broken off with him. If Mary Jane's fidelity to the little Frenchwoman had not been firm as a rock, she would have given way at this point, and told Bothwell the truth.