“Go on, go on, little clock, and shorten the time till I again see my dearest.”

As if in obedience to her behest, the clock seemed to tick with renewed energy.

Sometimes she would try and picture the unspeakable bliss which would be hers when the desire of her heart was gratified.  She often thanked God that she would soon be with Him and her little one.  She believed that He found His happiness in witnessing the joy of mothers at again meeting with their children from whom they had been parted for so long.

She had no idea who paid the expenses of her illness; she was assured by Mrs Trivett, whom she often questioned on the subject, that there was no cause for uneasiness on the matter.  Her health still refusing to improve, a further medical adviser was called in.  He suggested foreign travel as the most beneficial course for Mavis to pursue.  But the patient flatly refused to go abroad; for a reason she could not divine, the name of Swanage constantly recurred to her mind.  She did not at once remember that she had seen the name on the labels of the luggage which had cumbered the hall on the night when she had called at the Devitts.  She often spoke of this watering-place, till at last it was decided that, as she had this resort so constantly in her mind, it might do her good to go there.  Even then, it was many more weeks before she was well enough to be moved.  She remained in a condition of torpor which the visits of Windebank or Miss Toombs failed to dissipate.  At last, when a mild February came, it was deemed possible for her to make the journey.  The day before it was arranged that she should start, she was told that a gentleman, who would give no name, and who had come in a carriage of which the blinds were drawn, wished to see her.  When she went down to the parlour, she saw a spare old man, with a face much lined and wrinkled, who was clad in ill-fitting, old-fashioned clothes, fidgeting about the room.

“You wish to see me?” asked Mavis, as she wondered who he could be.

“Yes.  My name’s Perigal:  Major Perigal.”

Mavis did not speak.

The man seemed surprised at her silence.

“I—­I knew your father,” he remarked.

“I knew your son,” said Mavis icily.

“More’s the pity!”

Mavis looked up, mildly surprised.  The man continued: 

“He’s mean:  mean right through.  I’ve nothing good to say of him.  I know him too well.”

Mavis kept silent.  Major Perigal went on: 

“A nice mess you’ve made of it.”

The girl’s eyes held the ghost of a smile.  He continued: 

“I did my best for you, but you thought yourself too clever.”

Mavis looked up inquiringly.

“When I heard who it was he was going to marry, I wanted to do you a good turn for your father’s sake, as I knew Charles could never make you happy.  I forbade the marriage, knowing he wouldn’t face poverty for you.  He’s hateful:  hateful right through.”