“’Twas the least they could do,” said Jael, softly.

“What a pity you are going out.  I should have liked to talk to you about your father, and Martha, and George the blacksmith.  Doctor, who would live in a town after Cairnhope?”

Jael’s fingers trembled at her bonnet-strings, and, turning a look of piteous supplication on Grace, she faltered out, “If you please, miss, might I stay over to-day?”

“Of course.  And then he will tell you all about your people, and that will do just as well as you going to see them; and better.”

Off came Jael’s bonnet with wonderful celerity.

“Get the whole story out of him,” said Dr. Amboyne.  “It is well worth your attention.  As for me, I must go as soon as I have prescribed for you.  What is the matter?”

“The matter is that there’s nothing the matter; prescribe for that.  And that I’m a goose—­prescribe for that—­and don’t read the newspapers; prescribe for that.”

“Well, then, I prescribe the Hillsborough Liberal.  It has drawn a strong picture of this outrage, and shown its teeth to the Trades.  And, if I might advise a lady of your age and experience, I would say, in future always read the newspapers.  They are, compared with books, what machinery is compared with hand-labor.  But, in this one instance, go to the fountain-head, and ask Mr. Henry Little there, to tell you his own tragedy, with all the ins and outs.”

“Ah! if he would,” said Grace, turning her eyes on Henry.  “But he is not so communicative to poor us.  Is he, Jael?”

“No, miss.”

“He never even told us his name.  Did he, Jael?”

“No, miss.  He is very close.”

“Open him then,” said the doctor.  “Come, come, there are a pair of you; and evidently disposed to act in concert; if you can not turn a man inside out, I disown you; you are a discredit to your sex.”  He then shook hands with all three of them, and rolled away.

“Jael,” said Miss Carden, “oblige me by ringing the bell.”

A servant entered.

“Not at home to any human creature,” said the young lady.

The servant retired.

“And, if they see me at the window, all the worse—­for them.  Now, Mr. Little?”

Henry complied, and told the whole story, with the exception of the threat to his sweetheart; and passed two delightful hours.  Who is so devoid of egotism as not to like to tell his own adventures to sympathizing beauty?  He told it in detail, and even read them portions of the threatening letters; and, as he told it, their lovely eyes seemed on fire; and they were red, and pale, by turns.  He told it, like a man, with dignity, and sobriety, and never used an epithet.  It was Miss Carden who supplied the “Monsters!” “Villains!” “Cowards!” “Wretches!” at due intervals.  And once she started from her seat, and said she could not bear it.  “I see through it all,” she cried.  “That Jobson is a hypocrite; and he is at the bottom of it all.  I hate him; and Parkin worse.  As for the assassin, I hope God, who saw him, will punish him.  What I want to do is to kill Jobson and Parkin, one after another; kill them—­kill them—­kill them—­I’ll tell papa.”