Miss Halcombe followed.

“Half-past seven to-morrow morning,” she said—­then added in a whisper, “I have heard and seen more than you think.  Your conduct to-night has made me your friend for life.”

Miss Fairlie came last.  I could not trust myself to look at her when I took her hand, and when I thought of the next morning.

“My departure must be a very early one,” I said.  “I shall be gone, Miss Fairlie, before you——­”

“No, no,” she interposed hastily, “not before I am out of my room.  I shall be down to breakfast with Marian.  I am not so ungrateful, not so forgetful of the past three months——­”

Her voice failed her, her hand closed gently round mine—­then dropped it suddenly.  Before I could say “Good-night” she was gone.

The end comes fast to meet me—­comes inevitably, as the light of the last morning came at Limmeridge House.

It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me.  In the chill air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house, we three sat down together, and tried to eat, tried to talk.  The struggle to preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I rose to end it.

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me, took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly and hurried from the room.

“Better so,” said Miss Halcombe, when the door had closed—­“better so, for you and for her.”

I waited a moment before I could speak—­it was hard to lose her, without a parting word or a parting look.  I controlled myself—­I tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the farewell words I would fain have spoken dwindled to one sentence.

“Have I deserved that you should write to me?” was all I could say.

“You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for you, as long as we both live.  Whatever the end is you shall know it.”

“And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time, long after the memory of my presumption and my folly is forgotten . . .”

I could add no more.  My voice faltered, my eyes moistened in spite of me.

She caught me by both hands—­she pressed them with the strong, steady grasp of a man—­her dark eyes glittered—­her brown complexion flushed deep—­the force and energy of her face glowed and grew beautiful with the pure inner light of her generosity and her pity.

“I will trust you—­if ever the time comes I will trust you as my friend and her friend, as my brother and her brother.”  She stopped, drew me nearer to her—­the fearless, noble creature—­ touched my forehead, sister-like, with her lips, and called me by my Christian name.  “God bless you, Walter!” she said.  “Wait here alone and compose yourself—­I had better not stay for both our sakes—­I had better see you go from the balcony upstairs.”