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“My love,” he said, “you must come up-stairs and rest.”

“Rest!” I shrieked, “never! Get your hat, doctor, and come quickly. Let us go to the king. Let us do something. We have very little time, and he must be saved.”

I believe I was very unreasonable; I fear that I delayed them some minutes before good Dr. Penn could persuade me that I should only be a hindrance, that he would do everything that was possible, and could do so much better with no one but Robert.

“My love,” he said, “trust me. To obey is better than sacrifice!”

I went up-stairs into the dingy little sitting-room, and he went to call his landlady–“a good woman,” he said: “I have known her long.” Then he went away, and Robert with him, to the house of the Home Secretary.

It was three o’clock. Five hours still!

I sat staring at the sprawling paper on the walls, and at the long snuff of the candle that Dr. Penn had lighted, and at a framed piece of embroidery, representing Abraham sacrificing Isaac, that hung upon the wall. Were there no succouring angels now?

The door opened, and I looked wearily round. A motherly woman, with black eyes, fat cheeks, and a fat wedding-ring, stood curtseying at the door. I said, “I think you are Dr. Penn’s landlady? He says you are very good. Pray come in.”

Then I dropped my head on my hand again, and stared vacantly as before. Exhaustion had almost become stupor, and it was in a sort of dream that I watched the stout figure moving softly to and fro, lighting the fire, and bringing an air of comfort over the dreary little parlour. Then she was gone for a little bit, and I felt a little more lonely and weary; and then I heard that cheerful clatter, commonly so grateful to feminine exhaustion, and the good woman entered with a toasted glow upon her face, bearing a tray with tea, and such hospitable accompaniments as she could command. She set them down and came up to me with an air of determination.

“My dear, you must be a good young lady and take some tea. We all have our troubles, but a good heart goes a long way.”

Her pitying face broke me down. How sadly without feminine sympathy I had been through all my troubles I had never felt as I felt it now that it had come. I fairly dropped my head upon her shoulder and sobbed out the apparently irrelevant remark–

“Dear madam, I have no mother!”

She understood me, and flinging her arms round me sobbed louder than I. It would have been wicked to offer further resistance. She brought down pillows, covered them with a red shawl, and propped me up till the horsehair sofa became an easy couch, and with mixed tears and smiles I contrived to swallow a few mouthfuls, a feat which she exalted to an act of sublime virtue.

“And now, my dear,” she said, “you will have some warm water and wash your hands and face and smooth your hair, and go to sleep for a bit.”

“I cannot sleep,” I said.

But Mrs. Smith was not to be baffled.

“I shall give you something to make you,” said she.

And so, when the warm water had done its work, I had to swallow a sleeping-draught and be laid easily upon the sofa. Her last words as she “tucked me up” were, oddly enough–

“The tea’s brought back a bit of colour to your cheeks, miss, and I will say you do look pretty in them beautiful sables!”

A very different thought was working in my head as the sleeping-draught tingled through my veins.

“Will the birds sing at sunrise?”

Nelly, I slept twelve long hours without a dream. It was four o’clock in the afternoon of Monday when I awoke, and only then, I believe, from the mesmeric influence of being gazed at. Eleanor! there is only one such pair of eyes in all the world! George Manners was kneeling by my side.