“What’s wanted, Sarah?”

“A young lady to see Mr. Jones, sir,” and, stepping slightly aside for Kate to enter, the father recognized the visitor.

“You here, Kate?  What does this mean?”

With a great throb of joy she flung herself into his arms; too happy, too relieved to take into consideration the defeat of her purpose involved in the meeting.  For an instant she lost all thought of anything but that her estranged parent was in her arms, that she would not let him quit her sight again, that her pleading would keep him from any act that could cause her or any one else unhappiness.

“Ah, father, I’m so relieved, so glad!  I was miserable, and did not know where you were.  I—­I will not let you leave me again.”

“But my child, you must not be here; this is a house of sickness; there is dangerous illness here.”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than for you.  I know who is here.”  She looked archly at him, as he started in surprise.  “I will help nurse Mr. Jones.”  She said this with immense knowingness in her manner as she squeezed the astonished man to her heart.  The maid meanwhile had retreated to a safe distance, where she lurked in covert to make report of the extraordinary goings on.

“Impossible, Kate; you must not be here.  I will not have it; you must go.”  His voice grew stern.  “You must go, I say, Kate; you must go down-stairs this instant.”

“Come, Boone, I say, this isn’t fair; let the lady come in if she wants to see valor laid low.”  Boone, who had been insensibly moving Kate from the open doorway, caught her eye fixed on the room, and looking over his shoulder at these jocular words he saw Jones leaning against the post, a wan smile on his face.  Boone turned, almost flinging Kate from him, and, fairly lifting the invalid, carried him back into the room.

“This is madness; you are in no condition to rise.  I won’t be responsible for your life if you persist in this course.”

“So much trouble off your hands, old man.  I’ll be more use to you dead than living.  Better let me blow my own flame out.  It won’t burn long at best or worst.”

In the overwhelming revulsion of feeling brought about by the actual sight of Jones, Kate stood, interdicted, in the corridor, uncertain what to do.  She heard the man’s words and shuddered at the bantering levity with which he spoke of his own death.  Who could it be?  It was not Jack, as she had feared and hoped.  But he must know something of Jack.  She must speak with him.  How?  It would not do to irritate her father.  She caught Boone’s almost whispered words: 

“I tell you, Jones, you shall be brought about, but you know the danger of seeing any Acredale people.  My daughter knows you—­knows the Perleys.  I should think that would be reason enough why you should not be seen by her.”

“Oh, I don’t mind; the sight of a pretty girl is the best medicine I know of.  I’d risk all Acredale for that.”