Mary’s strength and tenderness were now invaluable.  By sheer force of will she overcame the malady in its physical effects, and did wonders in the assailing of its moral source.  Her appeal now, as formerly, was to the nobler pride always struggling for control in Nancy’s character.  A few days of combat with the besieging melancholy that threatened disaster, and Nancy could meet her friend’s look with a smile.  She put away and turned the key upon her futile scribbling; no more of that.  Novel-writing was not her vocation; she must seek again.

Early in the afternoon she made ready to go forth on the only business which now took her from home.  It was nearly a week since she had seen her boy.

Opening the front door, she came unexpectedly under two pairs of eyes.  Face to face with her stood Samuel Barmby, his hand raised to signal at the knocker, just withdrawn from him.  And behind Barmby was a postman, holding a letter, which in another moment would have dropped into the box.

Samuel performed the civil salute.

‘Ha!—­How do you do, Miss.  Lord?—­You are going out, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, I am going out.’

She replied mechanically, and in speaking took the letter held out to her.  A glance at it sent all her blood rushing upon the heart.

‘I want to see you particularly,’ said Samuel.  ’Could I call again, this afternoon?’

Nancy gazed at him, but did not hear.  He saw the sudden pallor of her cheeks, and thought he understood it.  As she stood like a statue, he spoke again.

‘It is very particular business.  If you could give me an appointment—­’

‘Business?—­Oh, come in, if you like.’

She drew back to admit him, but in the passage stood looking at her letter.  Barmby was perplexed and embarrassed.

‘You had rather I called again?’

‘Called again?  Just as you like.’

‘Oh, then I will stay,’ said Samuel bluntly.  For he had things in mind which disposed him to resent this flagrant discourtesy.

His voice awakened Nancy.  She opened the door of the dining-room.

‘Will you sit down, Mr. Barmby, and excuse me for a few minutes?’

‘Certainly.  Don’t let me inconvenience you, Miss.  Lord.’

At another time Nancy would have remarked something very unusual in his way of speaking, especially in the utterance of her name.  But for the letter in her hand she must have noticed with uneasiness a certain severity of countenance, which had taken the place of Barmby’s wonted smile.  As it was, she scarcely realised his presence; and, on closing the door of the room he had entered, she forthwith forgot that such a man existed.

Her letter!  His handwriting at last.  And he was in England.

She flew up to her bedroom, and tore open the envelope.  He was in
London; ‘Great College Street, S. W.’  A short letter, soon read.

DEAREST NANCY,—­I am ashamed to write, yet write I must.  All your letters reached me; there was no reason for my silence but the unwillingness to keep sending bad news.  I have still nothing good to tell you, but here I am in London again, and you must know of it.