"Mary, my coat and comforter!" cries Mark, jumping up.
"And, Mary, a pen and ink to write the message," says Tom.
"Oh! cannot I be of any use?" says Mary.
"No, you angel."
"You must not call me an angel, Mr. Thurnall. After all, what can I do which you have not done already?"
Tom started. Grace had once used to him the very same words. By the by, what was it in the two women which made them so like? Certainly, neither face nor fortune. Something in the tones of their voices.
"Ah! if Grace had Mary's fortune, or Mary Grace's face!" thought Tom, as he hurried back to Elsley, and Mark rushed down to the station.
Elsley was conscious when he returned, and only too conscious. All night he screamed in agonies of rheumatic fever; by the next afternoon he was failing fast; his heart was affected; and Tom knew that he might die any hour.
The evening train brings two ladies, Valencia and Lucia. At the risk of her life, the poor faithful wife has come.
A gentleman's carriage is waiting for them, though they have ordered none; and as they go through the station-room, a plain little well-dressed body comes humbly up to them—