This thought comforted him a little.  But the constant gnawing ache at his heart, and the withdrawal of all object to live for, soon began to tell upon his always feeble constitution.

Of what use was anything at all?  His house or his lands!  His pride in his position—­even his title of “squire,” which he often heard now.  All were dead-sea fruit, dust and ashes; there never would be any Browns of Bessington in the years to come.  There never would be anything for him, never any more.

For a week in September Captain and Mrs. Dominic Fitzgerald had paid them a visit, and the brilliant bride had cheered them up for a little and seemed to bring new life with her.  She expressed herself as completely satisfied with her purchase in the way of a husband; it was just as she had known, three was a lucky number for her, and Dominic was her soul’s mate, and they were going to lead the life they both loved, of continual movement and change and gayety.

But the situation at Bessington distressed her.

“Why, my dear, they are just like a couple of sick paroquets,” she said to her husband.  “Mr. Brown don’t look long for this world, and Theodora is a shadow!  What in the Lord’s name has been happening to them?”

But Dominic could not enlighten her.  Before they left she determined to ascertain for herself.

The last evening she said to Theodora, who was bidding her good-night in her room: 

“I had a letter from your friend Lord Bracondale last week, from Alaska.  He asks for news of you.  Did you see him after he came from Paris?  He was only a short while in England, I understand.”

“Yes, we saw him once or twice,” said Theodora, “and we made the acquaintance of his sister.”

“He always seemed to be very fond of her.  Is she a nice sort of woman?”

“Very nice.”

“I hear the mother is clean crazy with him for going off again and not marrying that heiress they are so set upon.  But why should he?  He don’t want the money.”

“No,” said Theodora.

“Was he at Beechleigh when you were there?”

“Yes.”

“And Miss Winmarleigh, too?”

“Yes, she was there.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.  “A great lump of a woman, isn’t she?”

“She is rather large.”

This was hopeless—­a conversation of this sort—­Jane Fitzgerald decided.  It told her nothing.

Theodora’s face had become so schooled it did not, even to her step-mother’s sharp eyes, betray any emotion.

“I am glad if the folly is over,” she thought to herself.  “But I shouldn’t wonder if it Wasn’t something to do with it still, after all.  If it is not that, what can it be?” Then she said aloud:  “He is going through America, and we shall meet him when we get back in November, most likely.  I shall persuade him to come down to Florida with us, if I can.  He seems to be aimlessly wandering round, I suppose, shooting things; but Florida is the loveliest place in the world, and I wish you and Josiah would come, too, my dear.”