“You shall come and see Arnold and me sometimes, uncle,” said Julia.

“She won’t let me,” he replied, with fresh tears; “she won’t let me mention your name, or go past your house.  I should very much like to see Martin’s wife—­a very pretty creature they say she is—­but I dare not.  O Julia! how little a man knows what is before him!”

We did not prolong our visit, for it was no pleasure to any one of us.  Dr. Dobree himself seemed relieved when we spoke of going away.  He and I shook hands with one another gravely; it was the first time we had done so since he had announced his intention of marrying Kate Daltrey.

“My son,” he said, “if ever you should find yourself a widower, be very careful how you select your second wife.”

These were his parting words—­words which chafed me sorely as a young husband in his honeymoon.  I looked round when we were out of the house, and caught a glimpse of his withered face, and ragged white hair, as he peeped from behind the curtain at us.  Julia and I walked on in silence till we reached her threshold.

“Yet I am not sorry we went, Martin,” she observed, in a tone as if she thus summed up a discussion with herself.  Nor was I sorry.

A few days after our return to London, as I was going home to dinner, I met, about half-war along Brook Street, Mrs. Foster.  For the first time since my marriage I was glad to be alone; I would not have had Olivia with me on any account.  But the woman was coming away from our house, and a sudden fear flashed across me.  Could she have been annoying my Olivia?

“Have you been to see me?” I asked her, abruptly.

“Why should I come to see you?” she retorted.

“Nor my wife?” I said.

“Why shouldn’t I go to see Mrs. Dobree?” she asked again.

I felt that it was necessary to secure Olivia, and to gain this end I must be firm.  But the poor creature looked miserable and unhappy, and I could not be harsh toward her.

“Come, Mrs. Foster,” I said, “let us talk reasonably together.  You know as as well as I do you have no claim upon my wife; and I cannot have her disturbed and distressed by seeing you; I wish her to forget all the past.  Did I not fulfil my promise to Foster?  Did I not do all I could for him?”

“Yes,” she answered, sobbing, “I know you did all you could to save my husband’s life.”

“Without fee?” I said.

“Certainly.  We were too poor to pay you.”

“Give me my fee now, then,” I replied.  “Promise me to leave Olivia alone.  Keep away from this street, and do not thrust yourself upon her at any time.  If you meet by accident, that will be no fault of yours.  I can trust you to keep your promise.”

She stood silent and irresolute for a minute.  Then she clasped my hand, with a strong grip for a woman’s fingers.

“I promise,” she said, “for you were very good to him.”

She had taken a step or two into the dusk of the evening, when I ran after her for one more word.