She laughed a little, and drew away her hand from his.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said—­“Think of Maryllia—­and of Mr. Walden!”

“I do think of them,—­I think of them all the time!” declared Julian earnestly—­“And that is why I am so uneasy.  For—­if the worst should happen, it will break Walden’s heart.”

Cicely’s eyes filled with tears.  She hurried away from him without another word or glance.

The fateful morning dawned.  Walden had parted from Maryllia the previous night, promising himself that he would see her again before she passed into the surgeon’s hands,—­but Forsyth would not permit this.

“She does not wish it, John,”—­he said—­“And she has asked me to tell you so.  Stay away from the Manor—­keep quiet in your own house, if you feel unable to perform your usual round of work.  It will be best for her and for you.  I will let you know directly the operation is over.  Santori is already here.  Now”—­and he gave Walden’s hand a close and friendly grip—­“steady, John!  Say your prayers if you like,—­we want all the help God can give us!”

The door opened and closed again—­he was gone.  A great silence,—­a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Walden’s heart.  He sank into his accustomed chair and stared before him with unseeing eyes,- -mechanically patting his dog Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts to clamber on his knee.

“My God, my God!” he muttered—­“What shall I do without her?”

Someone opened the door again just then.  He started, thinking that Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him something he had forgotten.  But the tall attenuated form that confronted him was not that of Forsyth.  A look of amazed recognition, almost of awe, flashed into his eyes.

“Brent!” he cried,—­and he caught at the pale hands extended to him,—­hands like those of a saint whose flesh is worn by fasting and prayer;—­then, with something of a sob, exclaimed again—­“Harry!  How—­why did you come?”

Brent’s eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tenderness in their dark and melancholy depths.

“I have come,”—­he said,—­and his musical voice, grave and sweet, trembled with deep feeling—­“because I think this is your dark hour, John!—­and because—–­perhaps—–­you may need me!”

And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly fell on his knees.

“Help me!” he cried, appealingly, with the tears struggling in his throat—­“You are right—­I need you!  Help me to be strong—­you are nearer God than I am!  Pray for me!”

Gently the Bishop withdrew his hands from the fevered clasp that held them, and laid them tenderly on the bowed head.  His lips moved, but he uttered no words.  There was a solemn pause, broken only by the slow ticking of the clock in the outer hall.

Presently, rising in obedience to his friend’s persuasive touch, Walden stood awhile with face turned away, trying to master himself, yet trembling in every nerve, despite his efforts.