It is most ridiculous--I really cannot get out of bed. Perhaps I
did do just a little too much yesterday. The opera after the

garden party, and a ball after the opera, and this tiresome cough
all night after the ball. Quite a series, isn't it? Make my

apologies to our dear dismal Romayne--and if you drive out this
afternoon, come and have a chat with me. Your affectionate

mother, Emily Eyrecourt. P. S.--You know what a fidget Matilda
is. If she talks about me, don't believe a word she says to you."

Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart.
"Is my mother very ill?" she asked.

"So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a
doctor. You know what my mistress is. If you would please to use

your influence--"
"I will order the carriageinstantly, and take you back with me."

Before she dressed to go out, Stella showed the letter to her
husband. He spoke with perfect kindness and sympathy, but he did

not conceal that he shared his wife's apprehensions. "Go at
once," were his last words to her; "and, if I can be of any use,

send for me."
It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought

sad news.
The physicianconsulted told her plainly that the neglected

cough, and the constantfatigue, had together made the case a
serious one. He declined to say that there was any absolute

danger as yet, or any necessity for her remaining with her mother
at night. The experience of the next twenty-four hours, at most,

would enable him to speak positively. In the meantime, the
patient insisted that Stella should return to her husband. Even

under the influence of opiates, Mrs. Eyrecourt was still drowsily
equal to herself. "You are a fidget, my dear, and Matilda is a

fidget--I can't have two of you at my bedside. Good-night."
Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whispered: "Three

weeks notice, remember, for the party!"
By the next evening the malady had assumed so formidable an

aspect that the doctor had his doubts of the patient's chance of
recovery. With her husband's full approval, Stella remained night

and day at her mother's bedside.
Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage,

Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.
The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There

were intervals during which her vigorousconstitution rallied and
resisted the progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella

was able to return to her husband for a few hours--subject always
to a message which recalled her to her mother when the chances of

life or death appeared to be equally balanced. Romayne's one
resource was in his books and his pen. For the first time since

his union with Stella he opened the portfolios in which Penrose
had collected the first introductory chapters of his historical

work. Almost at every page the familiar writing" target="_blank" title="n.笔迹；书法">handwriting of his
secretary and friend met his view. It was a new trial to his

resolution to be working alone; never had he felt the absence of
Penrose as he felt it now. He missed the familiar face, the quiet

pleasant voice, and, more than both, the ever-welcomesympathy
with his work. Stella had done all that a wife could do to fill

the vacant place; and her husband's fondness had accepted the
effort as adding another charm to the lovely creature who had

opened a new life to him. But where is the woman who can
intimately associate herself with the hard brain-work of a man

devoted to an absorbing intellectualpursuit? She can love him,
admire him, serve him, believe in him beyond all other men--but

(in spite of exceptions which only prove the rule) she is out of
her place when she enters the study while the pen is in his hand.

More than once, when he was at work, Romayne closed the page
bitterly; the sad thought came to him, "Oh, if I only had Penrose

here!" Even other friends were not available as a resource in the
solitary evening hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and

political engagements. And Major Hynd--true to the principle of
getting away as often as possible from his disagreeable wife and

his ugly children--had once more left London.
One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death,

Romayne found his historical labors suspended by the want of a
certain volume which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He

had mislaid the references written for him by Penrose, and he was
at a loss to remember whether the book was in the British Museum,

in the Bodleian Library, or in the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this
emergency a letter to his former secretary would furnish him with

the information that he required. But he was ignorant of
Penrose's present address. The Lorings might possibly know it--so

to the Lorings he resolved to apply.
CHAPTER III.

FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.
R OMAYNE'S first errand in London was to see his wife, and to

make inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. The report was more
favorable than usual. Stella whispered, as she kissed him, "I

shall soon come back to you, I hope!"
Leaving the horses to rest for a while, he proceeded to Lord

Loring's residence on foot. As he crossed a street in the
neighborhood, he was nearly run over by a cab, carrying a

gentleman and his luggage. The gentleman was Mr. Winterfield, on
his way to Derwent's Hotel.

Lady Loring very kindly searched her card-basket, as the readiest
means of assisting Romayne. Penrose had left his card, on his

departure from London, but no address was written on it. Lord
Loring, unable himself to give the required information,

suggested the right person to consult.
"Father Benwell will be here later in the day," he said. "If you

will write to Penrose at once, he will add the address. Are you
sure, before the letter goes, that the book you want is not in my

library?"
"I think not," Romayne answered; "but I will write down the

title, and leave it here with my letter."
The same evening he received a polite note from Father Benwell,

informing him that the letter was forwarded, and that the book he
wanted was not in Lord Loring's library. "If there should be any

delay or difficulty in obtaining this rare volume," the priest
added, "I only wait the expression of your wishes, to borrow it

from the library of a friend of mine, residing in the country."
By return of post the answer, affectionately and gratefully

written, arrived from Penrose. He regretted that he was not able
to assist Romayne personally. But it was out of his power (in

plain words, he had been expresslyforbidden by Father Benwell)
to leave the service on which he was then engaged. In reference

to the book that was wanted, it was quite likely that a search in
the catalogues of the British Museum might discover it. He had

only met with it himself in the National Library at Paris.
This information led Romayne to London again, immediately. For

the first time he called at Father Benwell's lodgings. The priest
was at home, expecting the visit. His welcome was the perfection

of unassuming politeness. He asked for the last news of "poor
Mrs. Eyrecourt's health," with the sympathy of a true friend.

"I had the honor of drinking tea with Mrs. Eyrecourt, some little
time since," he said. "Her flow of conversation was never more

delightful--it seemed impossible to associate the idea of illness
with so bright a creature. And how well she kept the secret of

your contemplated marriage! May I offer my humble congratulations
and good wishes?"

Romayne thought it needless to say that Mrs. Eyrecourt had not
been trusted with the secret until the wedding day was close at

hand. "My wife and I agreed in wishing to be married as quietly
as possible," he answered, after making the customary