No.  But wet through, and senseless from mingled cold and laudanum.

Whether he had meant to drown himself, and lighting on the shallow, had stumbled on till he fell exhausted:  or whether he had merely blundered into the stream, careless whither he went, Tom knew not, and never knew; for Elsley himself could not recollect.

Tom took him in his arms, carried him ashore and up through the water meadow; borrowed a blanket and a wheelbarrow at the nearest cottage; wrapped him up; and made the offending surgeon’s assistant wheel him to his lodgings.

He sat with him there an hour; and then entered Mark’s house again with his usual composed face, to find Mark and Mary sitting up in great anxiety.

“Mr. Armsworth, does the telegraph work at this time of night?”

“I’ll make it, if it is wanted.  But what’s the matter?”

“You will indeed?”

“’Gad, I’ll go myself and kick up the station-master.  What’s the matter?”

“That if poor Mrs. Vavasour wishes to see her husband alive, she must be here in four-and-twenty hours.  I’ll tell you all presently—­”

“Mary, my coat and comforter!” cries Mark, jumping up.

“And, Mary, a pen and ink to write the message,” says Tom.

“Oh! cannot I be of any use?” says Mary.

“No, you angel.”

“You must not call me an angel, Mr. Thurnall.  After all, what can I do which you have not done already?”

Tom started.  Grace had once used to him the very same words.  By the by, what was it in the two women which made them so like?  Certainly, neither face nor fortune.  Something in the tones of their voices.

“Ah! if Grace had Mary’s fortune, or Mary Grace’s face!” thought Tom, as he hurried back to Elsley, and Mark rushed down to the station.

Elsley was conscious when he returned, and only too conscious.  All night he screamed in agonies of rheumatic fever; by the next afternoon he was failing fast; his heart was affected; and Tom knew that he might die any hour.

The evening train brings two ladies, Valencia and Lucia.  At the risk of her life, the poor faithful wife has come.

A gentleman’s carriage is waiting for them, though they have ordered none; and as they go through the station-room, a plain little well-dressed body comes humbly up to them—­

“Are either of these ladies Mrs. Vavasour?”

“Yes!  I!—­I!—­is he alive?” gasps Lucia.

“Alive, and better! and expecting you—­”

“Better?—­expecting me?” almost shrieks she, as Valencia and Mary (for it is she) help her to the carriage.  Mary puts them in, and turns away.

“Are you not coming too?” asks Valencia, who is puzzled.

“No, thank you, madam; I am going to take a walk.  John, you know where to drive these ladies.”

Little Mary does not think it necessary to say that she, with her father’s carriage, has been down to two other afternoon trains, upon the chance of finding them.