Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was getting late, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on his account, since he could let himself out of the house, and would quite enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone.  Mrs. Hall assented; and Darton was left by himself.  He spread his knees to the brands, lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, and at the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above.

An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, and still he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest.  In the long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afield and a long ride in the open air produced their natural result.  He began to doze.

How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know.  He suddenly opened his eyes.  The back-brand had burnt itself in two, and ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on the mantelpiece had nearly gone out.  But in spite of these deficiencies there was a light in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere.  Turning his head he saw Philip Hall’s wife standing at the entrance of the room with a bed-candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettle in the other, and his gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.

‘Helena!’ said Darton, starting up.

Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were an apology.  ‘I—­did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,’ she said, while a blush flashed to her cheek.  ’I thought every one had retired—­I was coming to make a little water boil; my husband seems to be worse.  But perhaps the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.’

‘Don’t go on my account.  By all means put it on here as you intended,’ said Darton.  ‘Allow me to help you.’  He went forward to take the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed it on the fire herself.

They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace, waiting till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel between them, and Helena with her eyes on the kettle.  Darton was the first to break the silence.  ‘Shall I call Sally?’ he said.

‘O no,’ she quickly returned.  ’We have given trouble enough already.  We have no right here.  But we are the sport of fate, and were obliged to come.’

‘No right here!’ said he in surprise.

‘None.  I can’t explain it now,’ answered Helena.  ’This kettle is very slow.’

There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots was never more clearly exemplified.

Helena’s face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance without the owner’s knowledge—­the very antipodes of Sally’s, which was self-reliance expressed.  Darton’s eyes travelled from the kettle to Helena’s face, then back to the kettle, then to the face for rather a longer time.  ’So I am not to know anything of the mystery that has distracted me all the evening?’ he said.  ’How is it that a woman, who refused me because (as I supposed) my position was not good enough for her taste, is found to be the wife of a man who certainly seems to be worse off than I?’