“That would be beautiful,” said Theodora, “but Josiah is not fit for a long journey.  We shall go to the Riviera, most probably, when the weather gets cold.”

“Have you no message for him then, Theodora, when I see him?”

And now there was some sign.  Theodora clasped her hands together, and she said in a constrained voice: 

“Yes.  Tell him I hope he is well—­and I am well—­just that,” and she walked ever to the dressing-table and picked up a brush, and put it down again nervously.

“I shall tell him no such thing,” said her step-mother, kindly, “because I don’t believe it is true.  You are not well, dear child, and I am worried about you.”

But Theodora assured her that she was, and all was as it should be, and nothing further could be got out of her; so they kissed and wished each other good-night.  And Jane Fitzgerald, left to herself, heaved a great sigh.

Next day, after this cheery pair had gone, things seemed to take a deeper gloom.

The mention of Hector’s name and whereabouts had roused Theodora’s dormant sorrows into activity again; and with all her will and determination to hide her anguish, Josiah could perceive an added note of pathos in her voice at times and less and less elasticity in her step.

Once he would have noticed none of these things, but now each shade of difference in her made its impression upon him.

And so the time wore on, their hearts full of an abiding grief.

When October set in Josiah caught a bad cold, which obliged him to keep to his bed for days and days.  He did not seem very ill, and assured his wife he would be all right soon; but by November, Sir Baldwin Evans, who was sent for hurriedly from London, broke it gently to Theodora that her husband could not live through the winter.  He might not even live for many days.  Then she wept bitter tears.  Had she been remiss in anything?  What could she do for him?  Oh, poor Josiah!

And Josiah knew that his day was done, as he lay there in his splendid, silk-curtained bed.  But life had become of such small worth to him that he was almost glad.

“Now, soon she can be happy—­my little girl,” he said to himself, “with the one of her class.  It does not do to mix them, and I was a fool to try.  But her heart is too kind ever to quite forget poor old Josiah Brown.”

And this thought comforted him.  And that night he died.

Then Theodora wept her heart out as she kissed his cold, thin hand.

When they got the telegram in New York at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s mansion, Hector was just leaving the house, and Captain Fitzgerald ran after him down the steps.

“My son-in-law, Josiah Brown, is dead,” he said.  “My wife thought you would be interested to hear.  Poor fellow, he was not very old either—­only fifty-two.”

Hector almost staggered for a moment, and leaned against the gilded balustrade.  Then he took off his hat reverently, while he said, in his deep, expressive voice: