He took immediate steps for stanching the blood; and the fly carried Phoebe and her villain to the inn at Gravesend.

Falcon came to on the road; but finding himself alone with Phoebe, shammed unconsciousness of everything but pain.

Staines, being thoroughly enraged with Rosa, yet remembering his solemn vow never to abuse her again, saw her father, and told him to tell her he should think over her conduct quietly, not wishing to be harder upon her than she deserved.

Rosa, who had been screaming, and crying for joy, ever since she came to her senses, was not so much afflicted at this message as one might have expected.  He was alive, and all things else were trifles.

Nevertheless, when day after day went by, and not even a line from Christopher, she began to fear he would cast her off entirely; the more so as she heard he was now and then at Gravesend to visit Mrs. Falcon at the inn.

While matters were thus, Uncle Philip burst on her like a bomb.  “He is alive! he is alive! he is alive!” And they had a cuddle over it.

“Oh, Uncle Philip!  Have you seen him?”

“Seen him?  Yes.  He caught me on the hop, just as I came in from Italy.  I took him for a ghost.”

“Oh, weren’t you frightened?”

“Not a bit.  I don’t mind ghosts.  I’d have half a dozen to dinner every day, if I might choose ’em.  I couldn’t stand stupid ones.  But I say, his temper isn’t improved by all this dying:  he is in an awful rage with you; and what for?”

“O uncle! what for?  Because I’m the vilest of women!”

“Vilest of fiddlesticks!  It’s his fault, not yours.  Shouldn’t have died.  It’s always a dangerous experiment.”

“I shall die if he will not forgive me.  He keeps away from me and from his child.”

“I’ll tell you.  He heard, in Gravesend, your banns had been cried:  that has moved the peevish fellow’s bile.”

“It was done without my consent.  Papa will tell you so; and, O uncle, if you knew the arts, the forged letter in my darling’s hand, the way he wrought on me!  O villain! villain!  Uncle, forgive your poor silly niece, that the world is too wicked and too clever for her to live in.”

“Because you are too good and innocent,” said Uncle Philip.  “There, don’t you be down-hearted.  I’ll soon bring you two together again—­a couple of ninnies.  I’ll tell you what is the first thing:  you must come and live with me.  Come at once, bag and baggage.  He won’t show here, the sulky brute.”

Philip Staines had a large house in Cavendish Square, a crusty old patient, like himself, had left him.  It was his humor to live in a corner of this mansion, though the whole was capitally furnished by his judicious purchases at auctions.

He gave Rosa and her boy and his nurse the entire first floor, and told her she was there for life.  “Look here,” said he, “this last affair has opened my eyes.  Such women as you are the sweeteners of existence.  You leave my roof no more.  Your husband will make the same discovery.  Let him run about, and be miserable a bit.  He will have to come to book.”