was made up on the spot.  I knew her so well as to be certain that, if I found her in a gentle mood, she would, at any rate, release me from the promise she had extorted from me when she was in the first heat of her anger and disappointment.  It was a chance worth trying.  If I were free to declare to Olivia my love for her, I should establish a claim upon her full confidence, and we could laugh at further difficulties.  She was of age, and, therefore, mistress of herself.  Her friends, represented by this odious woman, could have no legal authority over her.

I turned shortly up a side-street, and walked as fast as I could toward the house which was to have been our home.  By a bold stroke I might reach Julia’s presence.  I rang, and the maid who answered the bell opened wide eyes of astonishment at seeing me there.  I passed by quickly.

“I wish to speak to Miss Dobree,” I said.  “Is she in the drawing-room?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, in a hesitating tone.

I waited for nothing more, but knocked at the drawing-room door for myself, and heard Julia call, “Come in.”

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

SET FREE.

Julia looked very much the same as she had done that evening when I came reluctantly to tell her that my heart was not in her keeping, but belonged to another.  She wore the same kind of fresh, light muslin dress, with ribbons and lace about it, and she sat near the window, with a piece of needle-work in her hands; yet she was not sewing, and her hands lay listlessly on her lap.  But, for this attitude of dejection, I could have imagined that it was the same day and the same hour, and that she was still ignorant of the change in my feelings toward her.  If it had not been for our perverse fate, we should now be returning from our wedding-trip, and receiving the congratulations of our friends.  A mingled feeling of sorrow, pity, and shame, prevented me from advancing into the room.  She looked up to see who was standing in the doorway, and my appearance there evidently alarmed and distressed her.

“Martin!” she cried.

“May I come in and speak to you, Julia?” I asked.

“Is my aunt worse?” she inquired, hurriedly.  “Are you come to fetch me to her?”

“No, no, Julia,” I said; “my mother is as well as usual, I hope.  But surely you will let me speak to you after all this time?”

“It is not a long time,” she answered.

“Has it not been long to you?” I asked.  “It seems years to me.  All life has changed for me.  I had no idea then of my mother’s illness.”

“Nor I,” she said, sighing deeply.

“If I had known it,” I continued, “all this might not have happened.  Surely, the troubles I shall have to bear must plead with you for me!”

“Yes, Martin,” she answered; “yes, I am very sorry for you.”

She came forward and offered me her hand, but without looking into my face.  I saw that she had been crying, for her eyes were red.  In a tone of formal politeness she asked me if I would not sit down.  I considered it best to remain standing, as an intimation that I should not trouble her with my presence for long.