“It’s a clear question of conscience, Helen,” he replied gently.  “Many years have passed since I saw this cousin, yet he, and still more strongly his father, have the claims of kinship.  If anything should happen which my presence could avert, you know we should both feel bad.  It would be a cloud upon our happiness.  If this request had come before you had changed everything for me, you know I would have gone without a moment’s hesitation.  Very gratitude should make me more ready for duty;” yet he signed deeply.

“But it may delay the wedding, for which the invitations have gone out,” protested Mrs. Kemble.

“Possibly it may, if my cousin’s life is in danger.”  Then, brightening up, he added:  “Perhaps I shall find that I can leave him in good care for a short time, and then we can go to Washington on our wedding trip.  I would like to gain associations with that city different from those I now have.”

“Come now,” said the banker, hopefully, “if we must face this thing, we must.  The probabilities are that it will turn out as Hobart says.  At worst it can only be a sad interruption and episode.  Hobart will be better satisfied in the end if he does what he now thinks his duty.”

“Yours is the right view,” assented the young man, firmly.  “I shall take the midnight train, and telegraph as soon as I have seen my cousin and the hospital surgeon.”

He went home and hastily made his preparations; then, with valise in hand, returned to the Kembles’.  The old people bade him Godspeed on his journey, and considerately left him with his affianced.

“Hobart,” Helen entreated, as they were parting, “be more than ordinarily prudent.  Do not take any risks, even the most trivial, unless you feel you must.  Perhaps I’m weak and foolish, but I’m possessed with a strange, nervous dread.  This sudden call of duty—­for so I suppose I must look upon it—­seems so inopportune;” and she hid her tears on his shoulder.

“You are taking it much too seriously, darling,” he said, gently drawing her closer to him.

“Yes, my reason tells me that I am.  You are only going on a brief journey, facing nothing that can be called danger.  Yet I speak as I feel—­I cannot help feeling.  Give me glad reassurance by returning quickly and safely.  Then hereafter I will laugh at forebodings.”

“There, you need not wait till I reach Washington.  You shall hear from me in the morning, and I will also telegraph when I have opportunity on my journey.”

“Please do so, and remember that I could not endure to have my life impoverished again.”

Late the following evening, Martine inquired his way to the bedside of his cousin, and was glad indeed to find him convalescent.  His own experienced eyes, together with the statement of the sick man and wardmaster, convinced him that the danger point was well passed.  In immense relief of mind he said cheerily, “I will watch to-night”; and so it was arranged.