Mr. Mool was in attendance at Fairfield Gardens, when his old friend arrived from Scotland, to tell him what the cautiously expressed message in the telegram really meant.

But one idea seemed to be impressed on Mr. Gallilee’s mind — the idea of reconciliation. He insisted on seeing his wife. It was in vain to tell him that she was utterly incapable of reciprocating or even of understanding his wishes. Absolute resistance was the one alternative left — and it was followed by distressing results. The kind-hearted old man burst into a fit of crying, which even shook the resolution of the doctors. One of them went upstairs to warn the nurses. The other said, “Let him see her.”

The instant he showed himself in the room, Mrs. Gallilee recognised him with a shriek of fury. The nurses held her back — while Mr. Mool dragged him out again, and shut the door. The object of the doctors had been gained. His own eyes had convinced him of the terrible necessity of placing his wife under restraint. She was removed to a private asylum.

Maria and Zo had been left in Scotland — as perfectly happy as girls could be, in the society of their cousins, and under the affectionate care of their aunt. Mr. Gallilee remained in London; but he was not left alone in the deserted house. The good lawyer had a spare room at his disposal; and Mrs. Mool and her daughters received him with true sympathy. Coming events helped to steady his mind. He was comforted in the anticipation of Ovid’s return, and interested in hearing of the generous motive which had led Miss Minerva to meet his stepson.

“I never agreed with the others when they used to abuse our governess,” he said. “She might have been quick-tempered, and she might have been ugly — I suppose I saw her in some other light myself.” He had truly seen her under another light. In his simple affectionate nature, there had been instinctive recognition of that great heart.

He was allowed to see Carmina, in the hope that pleasant associations connected with him might have a favourable influence. She smiled faintly, and gave him her hand when she saw him at the bedside — but that was all.

Too deeply distressed to ask to see her again, he made his inquiries for the future at the door. Day after day, the answer was always the same.

Before she left London, Miss Minerva had taken it on herself to engage the vacant rooms, on the ground floor of the lodging-house, for Ovid. She knew his heart, as she knew her own heart. Once under the same roof with Carmina, he would leave it no more — until life gave her back to him, or death took her away. Hearing of what had been done, Mr. Gallilee removed to Ovid’s rooms the writing-desk and the books, the favourite music and the faded flowers, left by Carmina at Fairfield Gardens. “Anything that belongs to her,” he thought, “will surely be welcome to the poor fellow when he comes back.”

On one afternoon — never afterwards to be forgotten — he had only begun to make his daily inquiry, when the door on the ground floor was opened, and Miss Minerva beckoned to him.

Her face daunted Mr. Gallilee: he asked in a whisper, if Ovid had returned.

She pointed upwards, and answered, “He is with her now.”

“How did he bear it?”

“We don’t know; we were afraid to follow him into the room.”

She turned towards the window as she spoke. Teresa was sitting there — vacantly looking out. Mr. Gallilee spoke to her kindly: she made no answer; she never even moved. “Worn out!” Miss Minerva whispered to him. “When she thinks of Carmina now, she thinks without hope.”

He shuddered. The expression of his own fear was in those words — and he shrank from it. Miss Minerva took his h............