Miss Gillespie had gone downstairs to carry a good report to Aunt Philippa.  Directly she had gone, Jill jumped up, still shaking a little, and went to her wardrobe.

‘I must go downstairs,’ she said, a little feverishly.  ’I have never thanked Mr. Tudor for saving my life.  Help me to be quick, Ursie dear, for I feel so queer and tottery.’  And nothing I could say would prevail on her to remain quietly in her room.  While I was arguing with her, she had dragged out her ruby velveteen and was trying to fasten it with her trembling fingers.

’Oh, you are obstinate, Jill:  you ought to be good on this night of all nights.’  But she made no answer to this, and, seeing her bent on her own way, I brought her a brooch, and would have smoothed her hair, but she pushed me away.

’It does not matter how I look.  I am only going down for a few minutes.  He is going away, and I want to say good-night to him, and thank him.’  And Jill walked downstairs rather unsteadily.

Mr. Tudor was just crossing the hall.  When he saw Jill, he hurried up to her at once.

’Miss Jocelyn, this is very imprudent.  You ought to have gone to bed:  you are not fit to be up after such a shock,’ looking at her pale face and swollen eyes with evident emotion.

Jill looked at him gently and seriously, and held out her hands to him quite simply.

’I could not go to bed without thanking you, I am not quite so selfish and thoughtless.  You have saved my life:  do you think I shall ever forget that?’

Poor Lawrence! the excitement, the terror, and the relief were too much for him; and there was Jill holding his hands and looking up in his face, with her great eyes full of tears.  It was not very wonderful that for a moment he forgot himself.

‘I could not help doing it,’ he returned.  ’What would have become of me if you had died?  I could not have borne it.’

Jill drew her hands away, and her face looked a little paler in the moonlight.  The young man’s excited voice, his strange words, must have told her the truth.  No, she was not too young to understand; her head drooped, and she turned away as she answered him,—­

’I shall always be grateful.  Good-night, Mr. Tudor:  I must go to my mother.  Come, Ursula.’

She did not look back as we walked across the hall, though poor Lawrence stood quite still watching us.  Why had the foolish boy said that?  Why had he forgotten his position and her youth?  Why had he hinted that her life was necessary to his happiness?  Would Jill ever forget those words, or the look that accompanied them?  I felt almost angry with Lawrence as I followed Jill into the room.

Jill need never have doubted her mother’s love.  Aunt Philippa had been too faint and ill to follow her daughter to her room, but her face was quite beautiful with maternal tenderness as she folded the girl in her arms.  Not even her father, who especially petted Jill, showed more affection for her that night.