Her quiet voice soothed him, and her gentle hands made his rest more easy.  She sat down beside him, thinking from his silence that he would really go to sleep; hoping and yet not hoping, revolving in her mind the chances of his escape, so soon as he should be strong enough to attempt it, shuddering at the thought of what his fate must be if he again fell into the hands of the police.  She did not know that a detective was at that moment in the house, determined to carry her husband away so soon as the doctor pronounced it possible.  Nothing indeed, not even that knowledge could have added much to the burden of her sorrows as she sat there, a small and graceful figure with a sad pathetic face, leaning forward as she sat and gazing drearily at the carpet, where the sunlight crept in beneath the curtains from the bright world without.  It seemed to her that the turning point in her existence had come, and that this day must decide all; yet she could not see how it was to be decided, think of it as she might.  One thing stood prominent in her thoughts, and she delighted to think of it—­the generosity of Charles Juxon.  From first to last, from the day when she had frankly told him her story and he had accepted it and refused to let it bring any difference to his friendship for her, down to this present time, when after being basely attacked by her own husband, he had nobly brought the wretch home and was caring for him as for one of his own blood—­through all and in spite of all, the squire had shown the same unassuming but unfailing generosity.  She asked herself, as she sat beside the sick man, whether there were many like Charles Juxon in the world.  There was the vicar, but the case was very different.  He too had been kind and generous from the first; but he had not asked her to marry him—­she blushed at the thought—­he had not loved her.  If Charles Juxon loved her, his generosity to Goddard was all the greater.

She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what the world calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good.  Her husband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away and separated from her by the law—­he was alive, and now was brought face to face with her again.  While he was living, she did not suppose it possible to love another, for she was very simple.  She said to herself truly that she had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friend she had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible of imaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even half unconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him.  There was no harm in that, she knew very well.  She owed her own husband no longer either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity for him.  Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it, and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friendship, she would have called herself the most ungrateful of women.  If ever man deserved respect, esteem and friendship, it was the squire.