As this last thought crossed my mind, I hastily closed the letter; determining (alas! how vainly!) never to open it again.  Almost at the same instant, I heard another knock at the house-door.  Could Ralph have returned already? impossible!  Besides, the knock was very different from his—­it was only just loud enough to be audible where I now sat.

Mannion?  But would he come thus? openly, fairly, in the broad daylight, through the populous street?

A light, quick step ascended the stairs—­my heart bounded; I started to my feet.  It was the same step which I used to listen for, and love to hear, in my illness.  I ran to the door, and opened it.  My instinct had not deceived me! it was my sister!

“Basil!” she exclaimed, before I could speak—­“has Ralph been here?”

“Yes, love—­yes.”

“Where has he gone? what has he done for you?  He promised me—­”

“And he has kept his promise nobly, Clara:  he is away helping me now.”

“Thank God! thank God!”

She sank breathless into a chair, as she spoke.  Oh, the pang of looking at her at that moment, and seeing how she was changed!—­seeing the dimness and weariness of the gentle eyes; the fear and the sorrow that had already overshadowed the bright young face!

“I shall be better directly,” she said, guessing from my expression what I then felt—­“but, seeing you in this strange place, after what happened yesterday; and having come here so secretly, in terror of my father finding it out—­I can’t help feeling your altered position and mine a little painfully at first.  But we won’t complain, as long as I can get here sometimes to see you:  we will only think of the future now.  What a mercy, what a happiness it is that Ralph has come back!  We have always done him injustice; he is far kinder and far better than we ever thought him.  But, Basil, how worn and ill you are looking!  Have you not told Ralph everything?  Are you in any danger?”

“None, Clara—­none, indeed!”

“Don’t grieve too deeply about yesterday!  Try and forget that horrible parting, and all that brought it about.  He has not spoken of it since, except to tell me that I must never know more of your fault and your misfortune, than the little—­the very little—­I know already.  And I have resolved not to think about it, as well as not to ask about it, for the future.  I have a hope already, Basil—­very, very far off fulfilment—­but still a hope.  Can you not think what it is?”

“Your hope is far off fulfilment, indeed, Clara, if it is hope from my father!”

“Hush! don’t say so; I know better.  Something occurred, even so soon as last night—­a very trifling event—­but enough to show that he thinks of you, already, in grief far more than in anger.”

“I wish I could believe it, love; but my remembrance of yesterday—­”