The surgeon came, and shook his head as he felt the feeble pulse.

“Is there no hope?” asked Cecil, sorrowfully.

“Scarcely any.  Give him this stimulant whenever you can get him to swallow it; but there seems no reserve of strength.”  And he passed on to others.

She lost no time in attending to his directions, and a large pair of melancholy brown eyes opened on her.  They watched her about persistently, and seeing their gaze, though languid, was rational, she asked “if there was anything she could do for him.”

His voice was so inaudible she could but just catch the sentence, “So he gives me over!”

“I don’t think he would if he could see you now.  Indeed, you seem better.”

“I don’t think I shall die; but, in case of accidents, will you write something for me?”

Cecil nodded, while holding rapid communion with herself.  Ought she to let him exhaust his little strength in dictating probably an agitating letter?

“Will you wait till you are a little stronger?” she said doubtfully.

“If I ever am, it will not be necessary to write; if otherwise I cannot do it too soon.”

Cecil, judging by her own feelings that opposition to any strong wish would be more injurious than even imprudent indulgence, glided from the room, and soon returned with writing materials.

She sat down by the bed, and casually felt the attenuated wrist as she did so.  The sick man gazed gratefully at her, but waited some minutes for breath to commence.  His first words made her almost bound from her chair, and, as he continued in low feeble tones, with long pauses between, Cecil was wrought into an agony of suspense and interest.

The communication was to be addressed to an uncle, and began abruptly:—­

“I was married to Theodora Leigh at a register office at Liverpool in November, 1853, and I make it a dying request to you to acknowledge my widow, who will otherwise be destitute both of money and friends.  Forgive, if you can, my deception, and the poor return made for all the benefits lavished on your, notwithstanding, grateful nephew,

  “HARRY DUTTON.

  “P.S.—­My wife is a governess in the family of Mr. Markham,
  Heatherbrae, Wimbledon.”

It was sealed, directed, and the patient had sunk into a heavy stupor; but Cecil felt her heart stirred as she had never expected to do again.

Here, if she had required it, was complete exoneration of any subsequent intercourse having taken place between Du Meresq and Bluebell.  The latter evidently had been far otherwise engaged, and, for the first time, she felt her long-cherished resentment melting away.

She gazed with some curiosity at the man who could so soon supplant Bertie, and smiled with irrepressible bitterness at the singular coincidence that she should be striving to preserve a husband to Bluebell, who had deprived her of her own early love.