“Good-night!” she said, gently.

“Good-night, Priscilla!”

“Good-night, Mr. Robin.  God bless ye!”

He smiled, nodded kindly to them both, and left the room.

“There’s a man for ye!” murmured Priscilla, admiringly, as he disappeared—­“A tower of strength for a ’usband, which the Lord knows is rare!  Lovey, you’ll never do better!”

But Innocent seemed not to hear.  Her face was very pale, and her eyes had a strained wistful expression.

“Dad looks very ill,” she said, slowly—­“Priscilla, surely you noticed—­”

“Now, child, don’t you worry—­’tain’t no use”—­and Priscilla lit two bedroom candles, giving Innocent one—­“You just go up to bed and think of nothing till the morning.  Mister Jocelyn is dead beat and put out about something—­precious ’ungry too, for he ate his food as though he hadn’t ’ad any all day.  You couldn’t expect him to be pleasant if he was wore out.”

Innocent said nothing more.  She gave a parting glance round the room to assure herself that everything was tidy, windows bolted and all safe for the night, and for a fleeting moment the impression came over her that she would never see it look quite the same again.  A faint cold tremor ran through her delicate little body—­she felt lonely and afraid.  Silently she followed Priscilla up the beautiful Tudor staircase to the first landing, where, moved by a tender, clinging impulse, she kissed her.

“Good-night, you dear, kind Priscilla!” she said—­“You’ve always been good to me!”

“Bless you, my lovey!” answered Priscilla, with emotion—­“Go and sleep with the angels, like the little angel you are yourself!  And mind you think twice, and more than twice, before you say ‘No’ to Mr. Robin!”

With a deprecatory shake of her head, and a faint smile, Innocent turned away, and passed through the curious tortuous little corridor that led to her own room.  Once safely inside that quiet sanctum where the Sieur Amadis of long ago had “found peace,” she set her candle down on the oak table and remained standing by it for some moments, lost in thought.  The pale glimmer of the single light was scarcely sufficient to disperse the shadows around her, but the lattice window was open and admitted a shaft of moonlight which shed a pearly radiance on her little figure, clothed in its simple white gown.  Had any artist seen her thus, alone and absorbed in sorrowful musing, he might have taken her as a model of Psyche after her god had flown.  She was weary and anxious—­life had suddenly assumed for her a tragic aspect.  Old Jocelyn’s manner had puzzled her—­he was unlike himself, and she instinctively felt that he had some secret trouble on his mind.  What could it be? she wondered.  Not about herself and Robin—­for were he as keen on “putting up the banns” as he had been in the morning he would not have allowed the matter to rest.  He would have asked straight questions, and he would have expected plain answers,—­and