Hinton, when he went away that morning, was, as I have said, very undecided how best to act.  He saw very clearly the fresh danger arising to Harold.  Was he but rescued from the dangerous fever to fall a prey to lingering, or, perhaps, rapid consumption?  Even his unprofessional eye saw the danger the boy was in; and the boy himself, lying awake during most of the weary hours of the night, had confided to his friend some thoughts which it seemed to Hinton could only come to such a child as the precursor of death.  He now loved the boy for his own sake, and he was determined, even more determined than during the height of the fever, to do something to again save his life.

After a brief pause for rapid thought, he determined to visit Dr. Watson.  That busy man was at home and saw Hinton at once.

“Little Home is no better,” said Hinton, going straight, as his wont was, to the very heart of his subject.

“He will never be any better unless he has change,” replied the doctor.  “Neither I nor any other man can now do more for him.  He requires, nay, he is dying for want of nature’s remedies, complete change, fresh, mild sea-air.  I told his mother so most plainly yesterday.  I recommended Torquay within a week from now, if she wishes to save his life.”

“Torquay is an expensive place, and a very long way from London,” replied Hinton.  “It seems almost cruel to tell Mrs. Home to do that for her child which must be utterly impossible.”

“There is no other chance for his life,” replied the doctor.  “I should be doing less than my duty, did I for a moment conceal that fact.”

Hinton paused for a moment to think, then he abruptly changed the subject.

“I want to visit a friend this morning ­a friend who has never had scarlet fever.  It is rather important that we should meet; but I must not risk danger.  You know I have been a good deal with the little boy.  Is there a risk to my friend in our meeting now?”

“Change all your clothes,” replied the doctor; “wear nothing you have in the Homes’ house.  Perhaps it would also be a wise precaution to take a Turkish bath.  If you do all this you may meet your friend without the slightest risk of evil consequences.”

Hinton thanked the doctor, and as the result of this conversation entered the dining-room in Prince’s Gate just as Charlotte was sitting down to her solitary luncheon.

It was over three weeks since these two had met, and the long three weeks had seemed like for ever to the loving heart of the woman, who was so soon now to be Hinton’s wife.  She expressed her joy at this unexpected meeting, not so much by words, but so effectually with eyes and manner, that Hinton, as he folded his arms round her, could not help a great throb of thankfulness rising up from his heart.

They sat down to lunch, and then afterwards Hinton told her the story of little Harold Home.  In telling this tale, however, he omitted again both name and address.  He had not meant when beginning his tale to keep these things any longer a mystery from her, but as the words dropped from him, and Charlotte’s eyes were fixed on his face, and Charlotte’s lips trembled with emotion, some undefined sensation prompted him to keep back these particulars.

Hinton, in coming to Charlotte, relied on her help, but he meant her just now to bestow it as on a stranger.  As he had expected, his tale aroused her warmest enthusiasm and interest.

“John,” she said, “something must be done.  The boy must not die!”

“He must go to Torquay,” replied Hinton.  “That is most manifest.  But the difficulty will be how.  They are very proud people.  The difficulty will be how to induce them to accept aid from outsiders.”

“Do you think they will be proud, John, when their child’s life depends on their accepting some aid from others?  I don’t think they will allow so false an emotion to sacrifice his little precious life.  It seems to me, that were I in that mother’s place, I would lick the dust off the most menial feet that ever walked, to save my child.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Hinton:  “there is no doubt that one woman can best read the heart of another.  What I propose is, that I take the little boy down to Torquay for a few weeks; I can make an excuse to the mother on my own score, and it will not seem so hard for her to send her boy.  And the little lad loves me, I believe.”

“Would it not be best for the mother to take her child herself?”

“It undoubtedly would.  But it would be placing her under deeper obligation.  I want to make it as light as possible to her.”

“Then, John, you will give me one happiness?  I will provide the money for this expedition.”

“You shall, my dearest,” answered Hinton, stooping down and kissing her.

He meant her to help Charlotte Home in this way, and he did not notice the slight sigh scarcely allowed to escape her lips.  The fact was, Charlotte Harman had grown very hungry, almost starved, for her lover during his three weeks’ absence, and now the thought that he was going still farther away from her, and their wedding-day drawing so quickly on, could not but excite a pang; the selfish part of her rose in revolt, and struggled to rebel, but with a firm hand she kept it well under, and Hinton never noticed her strangled little sigh.  They talked for a long time of their plans, and Charlotte mentioned what money she had of her very own, and which could be immediately at Hinton’s disposal.  In the midst of this conversation, the postman’s knock was heard, and a moment later a servant brought Charlotte a letter.  She did not recognize the handwriting, and laid it for a moment unopened by her side.  Then some confused remembrance of having seen it before, caused her to tear open the envelope.  This was what her eyes rested on.

Charlotte ­my sister and friend ­I have found the little piece of paper you put into my Harold’s hat.  I never knew it was there until to-day.  Thank God I did not know, for had I seen it after your visit, I should certainly, in my mad, ungracious, evil pride, have returned it to you.

Dear Charlotte ­God nearly broke my heart since I saw you.  He nearly took my boy away.  In that process my pride has gone, though my love and tenderness and gratitude to you remain, for with this fifty pounds you are saving my child’s little life.  Thank you for it.  God will bless you for it.  You will never ­never regret this deed.  It will come back to you, the remembrance of it, in the midst of your own wealth and affluence, or if dark days visit you, you will let your thoughts wander to it as a place of safe anchorage in the storm.  It will, all your life long, be a source to you of rejoicing that you saved a father’s and mother’s hearts from breaking, and kept a precious little life in this world.

I can add no more now, my dear.  For this money must be spent, and at once.  Oh! precious, valuable gold, which is to keep Harold with me!  I will write to you when we come back from Torquay; do not come to see me before, it would not be safe for you.

     Ever, my dear friend, because of you, the happiest and most
     grateful mother on God’s earth,

     CHARLOTTE HOME.

Charlotte Harman’s face was very white when, after reading this letter, she raised her eyes to Hinton’s.  What had been written with all joy and thankfulness was received with pain.  Why had Hinton kept this thing from her?  Why had he not told her where he had been staying?

“You kept a secret from me,” she said, and her eyes filled with heavy tears.

Then as he tried to comfort her, being very compunctious himself at having failed utterly to trust one so brave and noble, she suddenly drew herself from his embrace.

“John,” she said, with some pride in her voice, “did you in any degree keep this thing from me because you believed Mrs. Home’s story about my grandfather’s will?”

“I had a thousand nameless reasons for not telling you, Charlotte.  My principal one after the child got ill was my fear that you would come to the house, and so run the risk of infection.”

“Then you do not at all believe Mrs. Home’s story?”

“I have not investigated it, my darling.  I have done nothing but simply listen to what you yourself told me. You do not believe it?”

“Certainly not!  How could I?  It implicates my father.”

“We will not think of it, Charlotte.”

“We must think of it, for justice must be done to this woman and to her children; and besides, I wish to clear it up, for I will not have my father blamed.”

Hinton was silent.  Charlotte gazed at him eagerly, his silence dissatisfied her.  His whole manner carried the conviction that his faith in her father was by no means equal to hers.

“Is it possible to see wills?” she asked suddenly.

“Certainly, dear; anybody can see any will by paying a shilling, at Somerset House.”

“Would my grandfather’s will be kept at Somerset House?”

“Yes.  All wills are kept there.”

“Then,” said Charlotte, rising as she spoke, “before our wedding-day I will go to Somerset House and read my grandfather’s will.”