Who and what was this man, and what was he to Bella? He forced himself to give a professional opinion, and answered mechanically a string of questions Mr. Bolingbroke poured forth, but he hardly knew what he was saying.     

       "If only she gets over this she shall never be bothered any more, poor darling," he said brokenly. "I suppose I can go in, eh?"     

       His hand was on the door—John Chetwynd sprang to his feet.     

       "No one must see her," he cried excitedly. "I absolutely forbid it. It would be most dangerous—most improper."     

       The two men looked into each other's faces for the space of several seconds; then Mr. Bolingbroke turned away with a sigh and an impatient word. "Absurd! As if I could do her any harm," he said. "Well, I will be round again later in the day," he added with a nod to Saidie, and a minute later the hall door shut upon him.     

       "Who is that man?" asked Sir John sternly.     

       Saidie shrugged her shoulders.     

       "You shall tell me—what is he to Bella?"     

       "He is a good and noble man, and let me tell you there ain't too many knocking around. If she lives to get over this he will make her his wife."     

       And there was silence—a silence in which John Chetwynd read clearly his own heart at last, and stood face to face with facts—facts stripped of false adornments—naked, convincing.     

       Then he strode across the room and entered that in which Bella lay.     

       She was asleep, and he drew his chair close to the bedside and fixed his eyes on the wan, thin face, fever flushed, and fought the fiercest battle of his life with his inner self; and when the struggle was over, Pride lay in tatters and Love was conqueror.     

       She slept at intervals almost the whole of that day. Waking late in the afternoon, her eyes fell on the silent watcher by her side, and she smiled happily, contentedly.     

       Saidie bent over her and whispered a word or two.     

       

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