“What do you mean by saying he is going into a way?” asked Lord Hartledon.

“Consumption, or something of that sort.  Papa died of it.  You are not angry with me for having Bob?”

“Angry!  My dear Maude, the house is yours; and if poor Bob stayed with us for ever, I should welcome him as a brother.  Every one likes Bob.”

“Except mamma.  She does not like invalids in the house, and has been saying you don’t like it; that it was helping to keep you away.  Poor Bob had out his portmanteau and began to pack; but I told him not to mind her; he was my guest, not hers.”

“And mine also, you might have added.”

He left the room, and went to the chamber Captain Kirton had occupied when he was at Hartledon in the spring.  It was empty, evidently not being used; and Hartledon sent for Mirrable.  She came, looking just as usual, wearing a dark-green silk gown; for the twelve-month had expired, and their mourning was over.

“Captain Kirton is in the small blue rooms facing south, my lord.  They were warmer for him than these.”

“Is he very ill, Mirrable?”

“Very, I think,” was the answer.  “Of course he may get better; but it does not look like it.”

He was a tall, thin, handsome man, this young officer—­a year or two older than Maude, whom he greatly resembled.  Seated before a table, he was playing at that delectable game “solitaire;” and his eyes looked large and wild with surprise, and his cheeks became hectic, when Lord Hartledon entered.

“Bob, my dear fellow, I am glad to see you.”

He took his hands and sat down, his face full of the concern he did not care to speak.  Lady Hartledon had said he was going into a way; it was evidently the way of the grave.

He pushed the balls and the board from him, half ashamed of his employment.  “To think you should catch me at this!” he exclaimed.  “Maude brought it to me yesterday, thinking I was dull up here.”

“As good that as anything else.  I often think what a miserably restless invalid I should make.  But now, what’s wrong with you?”

“Well, I suppose it’s the heart.”

“The heart?”

“The doctors say so.  No doubt they are right; those complaints are hereditary, and my father had it.  I got quite unfit for duty, and they told me I must go away for change; so I wrote to Maude, and she took me in.”

“Yes, yes; we are glad to have you, and must try and get you well, Bob.”

“Ah, I can’t tell about that.  He died of it, you know.”

“Who?”

“My father.  He was ill for some time, and it wore him to a skeleton, so that people thought he was in a decline.  If I could only get sufficiently well to go back to duty, I should not mind; it is so sad to give trouble in a strange house.”

“In a strange house it might be, but it would be ungrateful to call this one strange,” returned Lord Hartledon, smiling on him from his pleasant blue eyes.  “We must get you to town and have good advice for you.  I suppose Hillary comes up?”