“Do we live in retirement?”

“We live where you like best to live.  Shall it be in the country?”

“Yes! yes!  You have spoken of the sea as you might have spoken of your best friend—­we will be near the sea.  But I must not keep you selfishly all to myself.  I must remember how good you have been to poor creatures who don’t feel our happiness, and who need your kindness.  Perhaps I might help you?  Do you doubt it?”

“I only doubt whether I ought to let you see what I have seen; I am only afraid of the risk of making you unhappy.  You tempt me to run the risk.  The help of a woman—­and of such a woman as you are—­is the one thing I have wanted.  Your influence would succeed where my influence has often failed.  How good, how thoughtful you would be!”

“I only want to be worthy of you,” she said, humbly.  “When may I see your Home?”

He drew her closer to him:  tenderly and timidly he kissed her for the first time.  “It rests with you,” he answered.  “When will you be my wife?”

She hesitated; he felt her trembling.  “Is there any obstacle?” he asked.

Before she could reply, Kitty’s voice was heard calling to her mother—­Kitty ran up to them.

Catherine turned cold as the child caught her by the hand, eagerly claiming her attention.  All that she should have remembered, all that she had forgotten in a few bright moments of illusion, rose in judgment against her, and struck her mind prostrate in an instant, when she felt Kitty’s touch.

Bennydeck saw the change.  Was it possible that the child’s sudden appearance had startled her?  Kitty had something to say, and said it before he could speak.

“Mamma, I want to go where the other children are going.  Susan’s gone to her supper.  You take me.”

Her mother was not even listening.  Kitty turned impatiently to Bennydeck.  “Why won’t mamma speak to me?” she asked.  He quieted her by a word.  “You shall go with me.”  His anxiety about Catherine was more than he could endure.  “Pray let me take you back to the house,” he said.  “I am afraid you are not well.”

“I shall be better directly.  Do me a kindness—­take the child!”

She spoke faintly and vacantly.  Bennydeck hesitated.  She lifted her trembling hands in entreaty.  “I beg you will leave me!” Her voice, her manner, made it impossible to disobey.  He turned resignedly to Kitty and asked which way she wanted to go.  The child pointed down the path to one of the towers of the Crystal Palace, visible in the distance.  “The governess has taken the others to see the company go away,” she said; “I want to go too.”

Bennydeck looked back before he lost sight of Catherine.

She remained seated, in the attitude in which he had left her.  At the further end of the path which led to the hotel, he thought he saw a figure in the twilight, approaching from the house.  There would be help near, if Catherine wanted it.