“Wait a little,” said Bartley, in some agitation.  “My letters have just come in, and I thought I saw a foreign postmark.”  He slipped back into the hall, brought in several letters, selected one, and gave it to Mary, “This is for you, from Marseilles.”

He then retired to his study, and without the least agitation or the least loss of time returned with a book of telegraph forms.

Meanwhile Mary tore the letter open, and read it eagerly to John Baker.

“GRAND HOTEL, NOAILLES, MARSEILLES, May 16.

“MY OWN DEAR LOVE,—­I have vowed that I will not write again to tempt you to anything you think wrong; but it looks like quarrelling to hide my address from you.  Only I do beg of you, as the only kindness you can do me now, never to let it be known by any living creature at Clifford Hall.

“Yours till death, WALTER.”

Mr. Bartley entered with the telegraph forms, and said to Mary, sharply, “Where is he?” Mary told him.  “Well, write him a telegram.  It shall be at the railway in half an hour, at Marseilles theoretically in one hour, practically in four.”

Mary sat down and wrote her telegram:  “Pray come to Clifford Hall.  Your father is dangerously ill.”

“Show it to me,” said Bartley.  And on perusing it:  “A woman’s telegram.  Don’t frighten him too much; leave him the option to come or stay.”

He tore it up, and said, “Now write a business telegram, and make sure of the thing you want.”

“Come home directly—­your father is dying.”

Old Baker started up.  “God bless you, sir,” says he, “and God bless you, miss, and make you happy one day.  I’ll take it myself, as my trap is at the door.”  He bustled out, and his carriage drove away at a great rate.

Mr. Bartley went quietly to his study to business without another word, and Mary leaned back a little exhausted by the scene, but a smile almost of happiness came and tarried on her sweet face for the first time these many days; as for old John Baker, he told his tale triumphantly at the Hall, and not without vanity, for he was proud of his good judgment in going to Mary Bartley.

To the old housekeeper, a most superior woman of his own age, and almost a lady, he said something rather remarkable which he was careful not to bestow on the young wags in the servants’ hall:  “Mrs. Milton,” says he, “I am an old man, and have knocked about at home and abroad, and seen a deal of life, but I’ve seen something to-day that I never saw before.”

“Ay, John, surely; and what ever was that?”

“I’ve seen an angel pray to God, and I have seen God answer her.”

From that day Mary had two stout partisans in Clifford Hall.

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