Dr. Amboyne thanked him—­it was dusk by this time—­and was soon seated at that hospitable table, with a huge wood fire blazing genially.

Meantime Jael Dence sat crouched upon her father’s grave, stupefied with grief.  When she had crouched there a long time she got up, and muttered, “Dead and gone! dead and gone!”

Then she crept up to the old church, and sat down in the porch, benumbed with grief, and still a little confused in her poor head.

She sat there for nearly two hours, and then she got up, and muttered, “Dead and gone—­he is dead and gone!” and wandered on the hill desolate.

Her feet wandered, her brain wandered.  She found herself at last in a place she recognized.  It was Squire Raby’s lawn.  The moon had just risen, and shone on the turf, and on the little river that went curling round with here and there a deep pool.

She crept nearer, and saw the great bay-window, and a blaze of light behind it.

There she had sung the great Noel with her father; and now he was dead and gone.

There she had been with Henry Little, and seen him recognize his mother’s picture; and now he was dead and gone.  She had saved his life in vain; he was dead and gone.  Every body was dead and gone.

She looked up at the glowing window.  She looked down at the pool, with the moon kissing it.

She flung her arms up with a scream of agony, and sunk into the deep pool, where the moon seemed most to smile on it.

Directly after dinner Dr. Amboyne asked to see the unhappy correspondence of which he was to be the judge.

Raby went for the letters, and laid them before him.  He took up the fatal letter.  “Why, this is not written by Mrs. Little.  I know her neat Italian hand too well.  See how the letters slant and straggle.”

“Oh! but you must allow for the writer’s agitation.”

“Why should I allow for it?  You didn’t.  Who can look at this scrawl, and not see that the poor heart-broken creature was not herself when she wrote it?  This is not a letter, it is a mere scream of agony.  Put yourself in her place.  Imagine yourself a woman—­a creature in whom the feelings overpower the judgment.  Consider the shock, the wound, the frenzy; and, besides, she had no idea that you left this house to get her husband the money from your own funds.”

“She never shall know it either.”

“She does know it.  I have told her.  And, poor thing, she thinks she was the only one to blame.  She seeks your forgiveness.  She pines for it.  This is the true cause of her illness; and I believe, if you could forgive her and love her, it might yet save her life.”

“Then tell her I blame myself as much as her.  Tell her my house, my arms, and my heart are open to her.  Amboyne, you are a true friend, and a worthy man.  God bless you.  How shall we get her here, poor soul?  Will you go for her, or shall I?”