Mary implored Mr. Bartley to let her go to him.  He refused, and gave his reasons, which were really sufficient, and now he became more unwilling than ever to let her visit Mrs. Easton.

This was the condition of affairs when one day an old man with white hair, dressed in black, and looking almost a gentleman, was driven up to the farm by Colonel Clifford’s groom, and asked, in an agitated voice, if he might see Miss Mary Bartley.

Her visitors were so few that she was never refused on speculation, so John Baker was shown at once into her drawing-room.  He was too much agitated to waste time.

“Oh, Miss Bartley,” said he, “we are in great distress at the Hall.  Mr. Walter has gone, and not left his address, and my poor master is dying!”

Mary uttered an unfeigned exclamation of horror.

“Ah, miss,” said the old man, “God bless you; you feel for us, I’m not on the old man’s side, miss; I’m on Mr. Walter’s side in this as I was in the other business, but now I see my poor old master lying pale and still, not long for this world, I do begin to blame myself.  I never thought that he would have taken it all to heart like this.  But, there, the only thing now is to bring them together before he goes.  We don’t know his address, miss; we don’t know what country he is in.  He sent a line to Miss Clifford a month ago from Dover, but that is all; but, in course, he writes to you—­that stands to reason; you’ll give me his address, miss, won’t you? and we shall all bless you.”

Mary turned pale, and the tears streamed down her eyes.  “Oh, sir,” said she, “I’d give the world if I could tell you.  I know who you are; my poor Walter has often spoken of you to me, Mr. Baker.  One word from you would have been enough; I would have done anything for you that I could.  But he has never written to me at all.  I am as much deserted as any of you, and I have felt it as deeply as any father can, but never have I felt it as now.  What!  The father to die, and his son’s hand not in his; no looks of love and forgiveness to pass between them as the poor old man leaves this world, its ambitions and its quarrels, and perhaps sees for the first time how small they all are compared with the love of those that love us, and the peace of God!” Then this ardent girl stretched out both her hands.  “O God, if my frivolous life has been innocent, don’t let me be the cause of this horrible thing; don’t let the father die without comfort, nor the son without forgiveness, for a miserable girl who has come between them and meant no harm!”

This eloquent burst quite overpowered poor old John Baker.  He dropped into a chair, his white head sunk upon his bosom, he sobbed and trembled, and for the first time showed his age.

“What on earth is the matter?” said Mr. Bartley’s voice, as cold as an icicle, at the door.  Mary sprang toward him impetuously.  “Oh, papa!” she cried, “Colonel Clifford is dying, and we don’t know where Walter is; we can’t know.”