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“Take me away,” she said, “and let me sleep! Let me sleep, for my brain is on fire!”

As she was leaving the room with her maid, she turned and looked at Robert. “Is Sir Michael gone?” she asked.

“He will leave in half an hour.”

“There were no lives lost in the fire at Mount Stanning?”

“None.”

“I am glad of that.”

“The landlord of the house, Marks, was very terribly burned, and lies in a precarious state at his mother’s cottage; but he may recover.”

“I am glad of that—I am glad no life was lost. Good-night, Mr. Audley.”

“I shall ask to see you for half an hour’s conversation in the course of to-morrow, my lady.”

“Whenever you please. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She went away quietly leaning upon her maid’s shoulder, and leaving Robert with a sense of strange bewilderment that was very painful to him.

He sat down by the broad hearth upon which the red embers were fading, and wondered at the change in that old house which, until the day of his friend’s disappearance, had been so pleasant a home for all who sheltered beneath its hospitable roof. He sat brooding over the desolate hearth, and trying to decide upon what must be done in this sudden crisis. He sat helpless and powerless to determine upon any course of action, lost in a dull revery, from which he was aroused by the sound of carriage-wheels driving up to the little turret entrance.

The clock in the vestibule struck nine as Robert opened the library door. Alicia had just descended the stairs with her maid; a rosy-faced country girl.

“Good-by, Robert,” said Miss Audley, holding out her hand to her cousin; “good-by, and God bless you! You may trust me to take care of papa.”

“I am sure I may. God bless you, my dear.”

For the second time that night Robert Audley pressed his lips to his cousin’s candid forehead, and for the second time the embrace was of a brotherly or paternal character, rather than the rapturous proceeding which it would have been had Sir Harry Towers been the privileged performer.

It was five minutes past nine when Sir Michael came down-stairs, followed by his valet, grave and gray-haired like himself. The baronet was pale, but calm and self-possessed. The hand which he gave to his nephew was as cold as ice, but it was with a steady voice that he bade the young man good-by.

“I leave all in your hands, Robert,” he said, as he turned to leave the house in which he had lived so long. “I may not have heard the end, but I have heard enough. Heaven knows I have no need to hear more. I leave all to you, but you will not be cruel—you will remember how much I loved—”

His voice broke huskily before he could finish the sentence.

“I will remember you in everything, sir,” the young man answered. “I will do everything for the best.”

A treacherous mist of tears blinded him and shut out his uncle’s face, and in another minute the carriage had driven away, and Robert Audley sat alone in the dark library, where only one red spark glowed among the pale gray ashes. He sat alone, trying to think what he ought to do, and with the awful responsibility of a wicked woman’s fate upon his shoulders.

“Good Heaven!” he thought; “surely this must be God’s judgment upon the purposeless, vacillating life I led up to the seventh day of last September. Surely this awful responsibility has been forced upon me in order that I may humble myself to an offended Providence, and confess that a man cannot choose his own life. He cannot say, ‘I will take existence lightly, and keep out of the way of the wretched, mistaken, energetic creatures, who fight so heartily in the great battle.’ He cannot say, ‘I will stop in the tents while the strife is fought, and laugh at the fools who are trampled down in the useless struggle.’ He cannot do this. He can only do, humbly and fearfully, that which the Maker who created him has appointed for him to do. If he has a battle to fight, let him fight it faithfully; but woe betide him if he skulks when his name is called in the mighty muster-roll, woe betide him if he hides in the tents when the tocsin summons him to the scene of war!”