Dr. Rumsey's patient

There was a short cut at the back of the office which would take Hetty on to the high road without passing round by the front of the house. It so happened that no one saw her when she arrived, and no one also saw her go. When she reached the road she stopped still to give vent to a deep sigh of satisfaction. Things were not right, but they were better than she had dared hope. Of course the Squire remembered—he could not have looked at her as he had done the night before, if memory had not fully come back to him. He remembered—he told her so, but she was also nearly certain that he would not confess to the world at large the crime of which he was guilty.

"I'll keep him to that," thought Hetty. "He may think nought o' himself—it's in his race not to think o' theirselves—but he'd think o' his wife and p'raps he'd think a bit o' me. There's Mrs. Everett and there's her son, and they both suffer and suffer bad, but then agen there's Mrs. Awdrey and there's me—there's two on us agen two," continued Hetty, rapidly thinking out the case, and ranging the pros and cons in due order in her mind, "yes, there's two agen two," she repeated.

"Mrs. Everett and her son are suffering now—then it 'ud be Mrs. Awdrey and me—and surely Mrs. Awdrey is nearer to Squire, and maybe I'm a bit nearer to Squire than the other two. Yes, it is but fair that he should keep the secret to himself."

The sun had long set and twilight had fallen over the land. Hetty had to walk uphill to reach the Gables, the name of her husband's farm. It would therefore take her longer to return home than it did to come to the Court. She was anxious to get back as quickly as possible. It would never do for Vincent to find out that she had deceived him. If he slept soundly, as she fully expected he would, there was not the least fear of her secret being discovered. Susan never entered the house after four in the afternoon. The men who worked in the fields would return to the yard to put away their tools, but they would have nothing to do in connection with the house itself—thus Vincent would be left undisturbed during the hours of refreshment and restoration which Hetty hoped he was enjoying.

"Yes, I did well," she murmured to herself, quickening her steps as the thought came to her. "I've seen Squire and there's nought to be dreaded for a bit, anyway. The more he thinks o' it the less he'll like to see himself in the prisoner's dock and me and Mrs. Awdrey and aunt as witnesses agen 'im—and knowing, too, that me, and, perhaps, aunt, too, will be put in the dock in our turn. He's bound to think o' us, for we thought o' him—he won't like to get us into a hole, and he's safe not to do it. Yes, things look straight enough for a bit, anyway. I'm glad I saw Squire—he looked splendid, too, stronger than I ever see 'im. He don't care one bit for me, and I—his eyes flashed so angry when I nearly let out—yes, I quite let out. He said, 'I can't affect to misunderstand you.' Ah, he knows at last, he knows the truth. I'm glad he knows the truth. There's a fire inside o' me, and it burns and burns—it's love for him—all my life it has consumed within me. There's nought I wouldn't do for 'im. Shame, I'd take it light for his sake—it rested me fine to see 'im, and to take a real good look at 'im. Queer, ain't it, that I should care so much for a man what never give me a thought, but what is, is, and can't be helped. Poor Vincent, he worships the ground I walk on, and yet he's nought to me; he never can be anything while Squire lives. I wonder if Squire thought me pretty to-night. I wonder if he noticed the wild flowers in the bosom of my jacket—I wonder. I'm glad I've a secret with 'im; he must see me sometimes, and he must talk on it; and then he'll notice that I'm pretty—prettier than most girls. Oh, my heart, how it beats!"

Hetty was struggling up the hill, panting as she went. The pain in her side got worse, owing to the exercise. She had presently to stop to take breath.

"He said sum'mat 'bout going away," she murmured to herself; "he wants me and Vincent to leave the country, but we won't go. No, I draw the line there. He thinks I'll split on 'im. I! Little he knows me. I must manage to show him that I can hold my secret, so as no one in all the world suspects. Oh, good God, I wish the pain in my side did not keep on so constant. I'll take some of the black stuff when I get in; it always soothes me; the pain will go soon after I take it, and I'll sleep like a top to-night. Poor George, what a sleep he's havin'; he'll be lively, and in the best o' humors when he wakes; you always are when you've taken that black stuff. Now, I must hurry on, it's getting late."

She made another effort, and reached the summit of the hill.

From there the ground sloped away until it reached the Gables Farm. Hetty now put wing to her feet and began to run, but the pain in her side stopped her again, and she was obliged to proceed more slowly. She reached home just when it was dark; the place was absolutely silent. Susan, who did not sleep in the house, had gone away; the men had evidently come into the yard, put their tools by, and gone off to their respective homes.

"That's good," thought Hetty. "Vincent's still asleep—I'm safe. Now, if I hurry up he'll find the place lighted and cheerful, and everything nice, and his supper laid out for him, and he'll never guess, never, never."

She unlatched the gate which led into the great yard; the fowls began to rustle on their perches, and the house dog, Rover, came softly up to her, and rubbed his head against her knee; she patted him abstractedly and hurried on to the house.

She had a latchkey with which she opened the side door; she let herself in, and shut it behind her. The place was still and dark.

Hetty knew her way well; she stole softly along the dark passage, and opened the kitchen door. The fire smouldered low in the range, and in the surrounding darkness seemed to greet her, something like an angry eye. When she entered the room, she did not know why she shivered.

"He's sound asleep," she murmured to herself; "that lovely black stuff ha' done 'im a power o' good. I'll have a dose soon myself, for my heart beats so 'ard, and the pain in my side is that bad."

She approached the fireplace, opened the door of the range, and stirred the smouldering coals into the semblance of a blaze. By this light, which was very fitful and quickly expired, she directed her steps to a shelf, where a candlestick and candle and matches were placed. She struck a match, and lit the candle. With the candle in her hand she then, softly and on tiptoe, approached the settle where her husband lay. She did not want to wake him yet, and held the candle in such a way that the light should not fall on his face. As far as she could tell he had not stirred since she left him, two or three hours ago; he was lying on his back, his arms were stretched out at full length at each side, his lips were slightly open—as well as she could see, his face was pale, though he was as a rule a florid man.

"He's sleepin' beautiful," thought Hetty, "everything has been splendid. I'll run upstairs now and take off my hat and jacket and make myself look as trim as I can, for he do like, poor George do, to see me look pretty. Then I'll come down and lay the supper on the table, and then when everything is ready I think I'll wake him. He fell asleep soon after four, and it's a good bit after eight now. I slept much longer than four hours after my first dose of the nice black stuff, but I think I'll wake 'im when supper is ready. It'll be real fun when he sees the hour and knows how long he 'as slept."

Holding her candle in her hand Hetty left the kitchen and proceeded to light the different lamps which stood about in the passages. She then went to her own nice bedroom and lit a pair of candles which were placed on each side of her dressing glass. Having done this, she drew down the blinds and shut the windows. She then carefully removed her hat, took the cowslips out of the bosom of her dress, kissed them, and put them in water.

"Squire looked at 'em," she said to herself. "He didn't touch 'em, no, but he looked at 'em, and then he looked at me and I saw in his eyes that he knew I were pretty. I was glad then. Seemed as if it were worth living just for Squire to know that I were really pretty."

She placed the flowers in a jug of water, folded up her jacket and gloves, and put them away with her hat in the cupboard in the wall. She then, with the candle still in her hand, went downstairs.

The kitchen felt chilly, and Hetty shivered as she entered it. All of a sudden a great feeling of weakness seemed to tremble through her slight frame; her heart fluttered too, seeming to bob up and down within her. Then it quieted down again, but the constant wearing pain grew worse and ached so perceptibly that she had to catch her breath now and then.

"I'll be all right when I can have a good dose," she thought. She went to the window, farthest from the one near which Vincent was lying, and drew down the blind; then going to the coal cellar she brought out some firewood and large knobs of coal. She fed the range and the fire soon crackled and roared. Hetty stood close to it, and warmed her hands by the blaze.

"What a noise it do make," she said to herself. "It ought to wake him; it would if he worn't sleepin' so sound from that lovely black stuff. Well, he can keep on for a bit longer, for he were dead tired, poor man. I'll get his supper afore I wake 'im."

She went out to the scullery, turned on the tap and filled the kettle with fresh cold water. She set it on the stove to boil, and then taking a coarse white cloth from a drawer laid it on the centre table. She took out plates, knives and forks and glasses for two, put them in their places, laid a dish of cold bacon opposite Vincent's plate, and some bread and a large square of cheese opposite her own. Having done this, she looked at the sleeping man. He was certainly quiet; she could not even hear him breathing. As a rule he was a stertorous breather, and when first they were married Hetty could scarcely sleep with his snoring.

"He don't snore to-night—he's resting wonderful," she said to herself. "Now, I just know what I'll do—he mayn't care when he wakes for nothing but cold stuff—I'll boil some fresh eggs for his supper, and I'll make some cocoa. I'll have a nice jug of milk cocoa and a plate of eggs all ready by the time he wakes."

She fetched a saucepan, some milk, and half-a-dozen new-laid eggs. Soon the cocoa was made and poured into a big jug, the eggs just done to a turn were put upon a plate; they were brown eggs, something the color of a deep nut.

"I could fancy one myself," thought Hetty; "I ain't eat nothing to speak of for hours. Oh, I do wish the pain in my side 'ud get better."

She pressed her hand to the region of her heart and looked around her. The farm kitchen was now the picture of comfort—the fire blazed merrily. Hetty had lit a large paraffin lamp and placed it in the centre of the table; it lit up the cosy room, even the beams and rafters glistened in the strong light; shadows from the fire leaped up and reflected themselves on the sleeper's face.

"He's very white and very still," thought Hetty; "maybe he has slept long enough. I think I'll wake him now, for supper's ready."

Then came a scratching at the window outside, and the fretful howl of a dog.

"There's Rover; what's the matter with him? I wish he wouldn't howl like that," thought the wife. "I hate dogs that howl. Maybe I had best let 'im in."

She ran to the kitchen door, flew down the passage, and opened the door which led into the yard.

"Rover, stop that noise and come along in," she called.

The great dog shuffled up to her and thrust his head into her hand. She brought him into the kitchen. The moment she did so he sat down on his haunches, threw up his head, 'and began to howl again.

"Nonsense, Rover, stop that noise," she said. She struck him a blow on his forehead, he cowered, looked at her sorrowfully, and then tried to lick her hand. She brought him to the fire; he came unwillingly, slinking down at last with his back to the still figure on the settle.

"Queer, what's the matter with him?" thought Hetty. "They say, folks do, that dogs see things we don't; some folks say they see sperrits. Aunt would be in a fuss if Rover went on like that. Dear, I am turning nervous; fancy minding the howl of a dog. It's true my nerves ain't what they wor. Well, cocoa will spoil, and eggs will spoil, and time has come for me to wake Vincent. What a laugh we'll have together when I tell 'im of his long sleep."

She approached the sofa now, but her steps dragged themselves as she went up to it and bent down over her husband and called his name.

"George!" she said. "George!" He never moved. She went a little nearer, calling him louder.

"George, George, wake up!" she said. "Wake, George, you've slept for over four hours. Supper is ready, George—cocoa and eggs, your favorite supper. Wake! George, wake!"

The dog howled by the fire.

"Rover, I'll turn you out if you make that noise again," said Hetty. She went on her knees now by the sleeping man, and shook him. His head moved when she did so and she thought he was about to open his eyes, but when she took her hands away there was not a motion, not a sound.

"What is it?" she said to herself. For the first time a very perceptible fear crept into her heart. She bent low and listened for the breathing.

"He do breathe gentle," she murmured. "I can scarcely hear; do I hear at all. I think I'll fetch a candle."

In shaking the farmer she had managed to dislodge one of his hands, which had fallen forward over the edge of the settle. She took it up, then she let it fall with a slight scream; it was cold, icy cold!

"Good God! Oh, God in heaven! what is it?" muttered the wife.

The real significance of the thing had not yet flashed upon her bewildered brain, but a sick fear was creeping over her. She went for the candle, and bringing it back, held it close to the ashen face. It was not only white, it was gray. The lips were faintly open, but not a breath proceeded from them. The figure was already stiff in the icy embrace of death.

Hetty had seen death before; its aspect was too unmistakable for her not to recognize it again. She fell suddenly forward, putting out the candle as she did so. Her face, almost as white as the face of the dead man, was pressed against his breast. For a brief few moments she was unconscious.

The twilight darkened into night, but Awdrey still remained in the office. After a time he groped for a box of matches, found one, struck a match, took a pair of heavy silver candlesticks from a cupboard in the wall, lit the candles which were in them, and then put them on his office table. The room was a large one, and the light of the two candles seemed only to make the darkness visible. Awdrey went to the table, seated himself in the old chair which his father and his grandfather had occupied before him, and began mechanically to arrange some papers, and put a pile of other things in order. His nature was naturally full of system; from his childhood up he had hated untidiness of all sorts. While he was so engaged there came a knock at the office door. He rose, went across the room, and opened it; a footman stood without.

"Mrs. Awdrey has sent me to ask you, sir, if you are ready for dinner."

"Tell your mistress that I am not coming in to dinner," replied Awdrey. "Ask her not to wait for me; I am particularly busy, and will have something later."

The man, with an immovable countenance, turned away. Awdrey once more locked the office door. He now drew down the remaining blinds to the other two windows, and began to pace up and down the long room. The powers of good and evil were at this moment fighting for his soul—he knew it; there was a tremendous conflict raging within him; it seemed to tear his life in two; beads of perspiration stood on his brow. He knew that either the God who made him or the devil would have won the victory before he left that room.

"I must make my decision once for all," he said to himself. "I am wide awake; my whole intellectual nature is full of vigor; I have no excuse whatever; the matter must be finally settled now. If I follow the devil——" he shrank as the words formed themselves out of his brain; he had naturally the utmost loathing for evil in any form, his nature was meant to be upright; at school he had been one of the good boys; one of the boys to whom low vices, dishonorable actions of any kind, were simply impossible; he had had his weaknesses, for who has not?—but these weaknesses were all more or less akin to the virtues.

"If I choose the devil!" he repeated. Once again he faltered, trembling violently; he had come to the part of the room where his father's old desk was situated, he leaned up against it and gazed gloomily out into the darkness which confronted him.

"I know exactly what will happen if I follow the downward path," he said again. "I must force myself to think wrong right, and right wrong. There is no possible way for me to live this life of deception except by deceiving myself. Must I decide to-night?"

He staggered into the chair which his father used to occupy. His father had been a man full of rectitude; the doom of the house had never overtaken him; he had been a man with an almost too severe and lofty code of honor. Awdrey remembered all about his father as he sat in that chair. He sprang again to his feet.

"There is no use in putting off the hour, for the hour has come," he thought. "This is the state of the case. God and the devil are with me to-night. I cannot lie in the presence of such awful, such potent Forces. I must face the thing as it is. This is what has happened to me. I, who would not willingly in my sober senses, hurt the smallest insect that crawls on the earth, once, nearly six years ago, in a sudden moment of passion killed a man. He attacked me, and I defended myself. I killed him in self-defence. I no more meant to kill him than I mean to commit murder to-night. Notwithstanding that fact I did it. Doubtless the action came over me as a tremendous shock—immediately after the deed the doom of my house fell on me, and I forgot all about what I myself had done—for five years the memory of it never returned to me. Now I know all about it. At the present moment another man is suffering in my stead. Now if I follow the devil I shall be a brute and a scoundrel; the other man will go on suffering, and his mother, whose heart is already broken, may die before he recovers his liberty. Thus I shall practically kill two lives. No one will know—no one will guess that I am leading a shadowed life. I feel strong enough now to cover up the deed, to hide away the remorse. I feel not the least doubt that I shall be outwardly successful—the respect of my fellow-men will follow me—the love of many will be given to me. By and by I may have children, and they will love me as I loved my father, and Margaret will look up to me and consult me as my mother looked up to and consulted my father, and my honor will be considered above reproach. My people too will rejoice to have me back with them. I can serve them if I am returned for this constituency—in short, I can live a worthy and respected life. The devil will have his way, but no one will guess that it is the devil's way—I shall seem to live the life of an angel."

Awdrey paused here in his own thought.

"I feel as if the devil were laughing at me," he said, speaking half aloud, and looking again into the darkness of the room—"he knows that his hour will come—by and by my span of life will run out—eventually I shall reach the long end of the long way. But until that time, day by day, and hour by hour, I shall live the life of the hypocrite. Like a whited sepulchre shall I be truly, for I shall carry hell here. By and by I shall have to answer for all at a Higher Tribunal, and meanwhile I shall carry hell here." He pressed his hand to his breast—his face was ghastly. "Shall I follow the devil? Suppose I do not, what then?"

There came another tap at the office door. Awdrey went across the room and opened it. He started and uttered a smothered oath, for Margaret stood on the threshold.

"Go away now, Maggie, I can't see you; I am very much engaged," he said.

Instead of obeying him she stepped across the threshold.

"But you have no one with you," she said, looking into the darkness of the room. "What are you doing, Robert, all by yourself? You look very white and tired. We have finished dinner—my uncle has come over from Cuthbertstown, and would like to see you—they all think it strange your being away. What is the matter? Won't you return with me to the house?"

"I cannot yet. I am particularly engaged."

"But what about? Uncle James will be much disappointed if he does not see you."

"I'll come to him presently when I have thought out a problem."

Margaret turned herself now in such a position that she could see her husband's face. Something in his eyes seemed to speak straight to her sympathies,—she put her arms round his neck.

"Don't think any more now, my darling," she said. "Remember, though you are so well, that you were once very ill. You have had no dinner, it is not right for you to starve yourself and tire yourself. Come home with me, Robert, come home!"

"Not yet," he replied. "There is a knot which I must untie. I am thinking a very grave problem out. I shall have no rest, no peace, until I have made up my mind."

"What can be the matter?" inquired Margaret. "Can I help you in any way?"

"No, my dearest," he answered very tenderly, "except by leaving me."

"Is it anything to do with accounts?" she asked. She glanced at the table with its pile of letters and papers. "If so, I could really render you assistance; I used to keep accounts for Uncle James in the old days. Two brains are better than one. Let me help you."

"It is a mental problem, Maggie; it relates to morals."

"Oh, dear me, Robert, you are quite mysterious," she said with a ghost of a smile; but then she met his eyes and the trouble in them startled her.

"I wish I could help you," she said. "Do let me."

"You cannot," he replied harshly, for the look in her face added to his tortures. "I shall come to a conclusion presently. When I come to it I will return to the house."

"Then we are not to wait up for you? It is getting quite late, long past nine o'clock."

"Do not wait up for me; leave the side door on the latch; I'll come in presently when I have made up my mind on this important matter."

She approached the door unwillingly; when she reached the threshold she turned and faced him.

"I cannot but see that you are worried about something," she said. "I know, Robert, that you will have strength to do what is right. I cannot imagine what your worry can be, but a moral problem with you must mean the victory of right over wrong."

"Maggie, you drive me mad," he called after her, but his voice was hoarse, and it did not reach her ears. She closed the door, and he heard her retreating footsteps on the gravel outside. He locked the door once more.

"There spoke God and my good angel," he murmured to himself. "Help me, Powers of Evil, if I am to follow you; give me strength to walk the path of the lowest."

These words had scarcely risen in the form of an awful prayer when once again he heard his wife's voice at the door. She was tapping and calling to him at the same time. He opened the door.

"Well?" he said.

"I am sorry to disturb you," she replied, "but you really must put off all your reflections for the time being. Who do you think has just arrived?"

"Who?" he asked in a listless voice.

"Your old friend and mine, Dr. Rumsey."

"Rumsey!" replied Awdrey, "he would be a strong advocate on your side, Maggie."

"On my side?" she queried.

"I cannot explain myself. I think I'll see Rumsey. It would be possible for me to put a question to him which I could not put to you—ask him to come to me."

"He shall come at once," she answered, "I am heartily glad that he is here."

So he turned back and went to the house—she ran up the front steps—Rumsey was in the hall.

"My hearty congratulations," he said, coming up to her. "Your letter contained such good news that I could not forbear hurrying down to Grandcourt to take a peep at my strange patient; I always call Awdrey my strange patient. Is it true that he is now quite well?"

"Half an hour ago I should have said yes," replied Margaret; "but——"

"Any recurrence of the old symptoms?" asked the doctor.

"No, nothing of that sort. Perhaps the excitement has been too much for him. Come into the library, will you?"

She entered as she spoke, the doctor following her.

"I wrote to you when I was abroad," continued Margaret, "telling you the simple fact that my husband's state of health had gone from better to better. He recovered tone of mind and body in the most rapid degree. This morning I considered him a man of perfect physical health and of keen brilliant intellect. You know during the five years when the cloud was over his brain he refused to read, and lost grip of all passing events. There is no subject now of general interest that he cannot talk about—all matters of public concern arouse his keenest sympathies. To-day he has been nominated to stand for his constituency, vacant by the death of our late member. I have no doubt that he will represent us in the House when Parliament next sits."

"Or perhaps before this one rises," said the doctor. "Well, Mrs. Awdrey, all this sounds most encouraging, but your 'but' leads to something not so satisfactory, does it not?"

"That is so; at the present moment I do not like his state. He was out and about all day, but instead of returning home to dinner went straight to his office, where he now is. As far as I can see, he is doing no special work, but he will not come into the house. He tells me that he is facing a problem which he also says is a moral one. He refuses to leave the office until he has come to a satisfactory conclusion."

"Come, he is overdoing it," said the doctor.

"I think so. I told him just now that you had arrived; he asked me to bring you to him; will you come?"

"With pleasure."

"Can you do without a meal until you have seen him?"

"Certainly; take me to him at once."

Mrs. Awdrey left the house, and took Dr. Rumsey round by the side walk which led to the office. The door was now slightly ajar; Margaret entered the doctor following behind her.

"Well, my friend," said Dr. Rumsey, in his cheerful voice, "it is good to see you back in your old place again. Your wife's letter was so satisfactory that I could not resist the temptation of coming to see you for myself."

"I am in perfect health," replied Awdrey. "Sit down, won't you, Rumsey? Margaret, my dear, do you mind leaving us?"

"No, Robert," she answered. "I trust to Dr. Rumsey to bring you back to your senses."

"She does not know what she is saying," muttered Awdrey. He followed his wife to the door, and when she went out turned the key in the lock.

"It is a strange thing," he said, the moment he found himself alone with his guest, "that you, Rumsey, should be here at this moment. You were with me during the hour of my keenest and most terrible physical and mental degradation; you have now come to see me through the hour of my moral degradation—or victory."

"Your moral degradation or victory?" said the doctor; "what does this mean?"

"It simply means this, Dr. Rumsey; I am the unhappy possessor of a secret."

"Ah!"

"Yes—a secret. Were this secret known my wife's heart would be broken, and this honorable house of which I am the last descendant would go to complete shipwreck. I don't talk of myself in the matter."

"Do you mean to confide in me?" asked the doctor, after a pause.

"I cannot; for the simple reason, that if I told you everything you would be bound as a man and a gentleman to take steps to insure the downfall which I dread."

"Are you certain that you are not suffering from delusion?"

"No, doctor, I wish I were."

"You certainly look sane enough," said the doctor, examining his patient with one of his penetrating glances. "You must allow me to congratulate you. If I had not seen you with my own eyes I could never have believed in such a reformation. You are bronzed; your frame has widened; you have not a scrap of superfluous flesh about you. Let me feel your arm; my dear sir, your muscle is to be envied."

"I was famed for my athletic power long ago," said Awdrey, with a grim smile. "But now, doctor, to facts. You have come here; it is possible for me to take you into my confidence to a certain extent. Will you allow me to state my case?"

"As you intend only to state it partially it will be difficult for me to advise you," said the doctor.

"Still, will you listen?"

"I'll listen."

"Well, the fact is this," said Awdrey, rising, "either God or the devil take possession of me to-night."

"Come, come," said Rumsey, "you are exaggerating the state of the case."

"I am not. I am going through the most desperate fight that ever assailed a man. I may get out on the side of good, but at the present moment I must state frankly that all my inclinations tend to getting out of this struggle on the side which will put me into the Devil's hands."

"Come," said the doctor again, "if that is so there can be no doubt with regard to your position. You must close with right even though it is a struggle. You confess to possessing a secret; that secret is the cause of your misery; there is a right and a wrong to it?"

"Undoubtedly; a very great right and a very grave wrong."

"Then, Awdrey, do not hesitate; be man enough to do the right."

Awdrey turned white.

"You are the second person who has come here to-night and advised me on the side of God," he said.

"Out with your trouble, man, and relieve your mind."

"When I relieve my mind," said Awdrey, "my wife's heart will break, and our house will be ruined."

"What about you?"

"I shall go under."

"I doubt very much if your doing right would ever break a heart like your wife's," said Rumsey, "but doing wrong would undoubtedly crush her spirit."

"There you are again—will no one take the Devil's part? Dr. Rumsey, I firmly believe that it is much owing to your influence that I am now in my sane mind. I believe that it is owing to you that the doom of my house has been lifted from my brain. When I think of the path which you now advocate, I could curse the day when you brought me back to health and sanity. A very little influence on the other side, a mere letting me alone, and I should now either be a madman or in my grave; then I would have carried my secret to the bitter end. As it is——"

There was a noise heard outside—the sound made by a faltering footstep. The brush of a woman's dress was distinctly audible against the door; this was followed by a timid knock.

"Who is disturbing us now?" said Awdrey, with irritation.

"I'll open the door and see," said the doctor.

He crossed the room as he spoke and opened the door. An untidily dressed girl with a ghastly white face stood without. When the door was opened she peered anxiously into the room.

"Is Mr. Awdrey in?—yes, I see him. I must speak to him at once."

She staggered across the threshold.

"I must see you alone, Squire," she said—"quite alone and at once."

"This has to do with the matter under consideration," said the Squire. "Come in, Hetty; sit down. Rumsey, you had best leave us."

A real faint, or suspension of the heart's action, is never a long affair. When Hetty fell in an unconscious state against the body of her dead husband she quickly recovered herself. Her intellect was keen enough, and she knew exactly what had happened. The nice black stuff which gave such pleasant dreams had killed Vincent. She had therefore killed him. Yes, he was stone dead—she had seen death once or twice before, and could not possibly mistake it. She had seen her mother die long ago, and had stood by the deathbed of more than one neighbor. The cold, the stiffness, the gray-white appearance, all told her beyond the possibility of doubt that life was not only extinct, but had been extinct for at least a couple of hours. Her husband was dead. When she had given him that fatal dose he had been in the full vigor of youth and health—now he was dead. She had never loved him in life; although he had been an affectionate husband to her, but at this moment she shed a few tears for him. Not many, for they were completely swallowed up in the fear and terror which grew greater and greater each moment within her. He was dead, and she had killed him. Long ago she had concealed the knowledge of a murder because she loved the man who had committed it. Now she had committed murder herself—not intentionally, no, no. No more had she intended to kill Vincent than Awdrey when he was out that night had intended to take the life of Horace Frere. But Frere was dead and now Vincent was dead, and Hetty would be tried for the crime. No, surely they could not try her—they could not possibly bring it home to her. How could a little thing like she was be supposed to take the life of a big man? She had never meant to injure him, too—she had only meant to give him a good sleep, to rest him thoroughly—to deceive him, of course—to do a thing which she knew if he were aware of would break his heart; but to take his life, no, nothing was further from her thoughts. Nevertheless the deed was done.

Oh, it was horrible, horrible—she hated being so close to the dead body. It was no longer Vincent, the man who would have protected her at the risk of his life, it was a hideous dead body. She would get away from it—she would creep up close to Rover. No wonder Rover hated the room; perhaps he saw the spirit of her husband. Oh, how frightened she was! What was the matter with her side?—why did her heart beat so strangely, galloping one, two, three, then pausing, then one, two, three again?—and the pain, the sick, awful pain. Yes, she knew—she was sick to death with terror.

She got up presently from where she had been kneeling by her dead husband's side and staggered across to the fireplace. She tried wildly to think, but she found herself incapable of reasoning. Shivering violently, she approached the table, poured out a cup of the cocoa which was still hot, and managed to drink it off. The warm liquid revived her, and she felt a shade better and more capable of thought. Her one instinct now was to save herself. Vincent was dead—no one in all the world could bring him back to life, but, if possible, Hetty would so act that not a soul in all the country should suspect her. How could she make things safe? If it were known, known everywhere, that she was away from him when he died, then of course she would be safe. Yes, this fact must be known. Once she had saved the Squire, now the Squire must save her. It must be known everywhere that she had sought an interview with him—that at the time when Vincent died she was in the Squire's presence, shut up in the office with him, the door locked—she and the Squire alone together. This secret, which she would have fought to the death to keep to herself an hour ago, must now be blazoned abroad to a criticising world. The lesser danger to the Squire must be completely swallowed up in the greater danger to herself. She must hurry to him at once and get him to tell what he knew. Ah, yes, if he did this she would be safe—she remembered the right word at last, for she had heard the neighbors speak of it when it a celebrated trial was going on in Salisbury—she must prove an alibi—then it would be known that she had been absent from home when her husband died.

The imminence of the danger made her at last feel quiet and steady. She took up the lighted candle and went into the dairy—she unlocked the cupboard in the wall and took out the bottle of laudanum. Returning to the kitchen she emptied the contents of the bottle into the range and then threw the bottle itself also into the heart of the fire—she watched it as it slowly melted under the influence of the hot fire—the laudanum itself was also licked up by the hungry flames. That tell-tale and awful evidence of her guilt was at least removed. She forgot all about Susan having seen the liquid in the morning—she knew nothing about the evidence which would be brought to light at a coroner's inquest—about the facts which a doctor would be sure to give. Nothing but the bare reality remained prominently before her excited brain. Vincent was dead—she had killed him by an overdose of laudanum which she had given him in all innocence to make him sleep—but yet, yet in her heart of hearts, she knew that her motive would not bear explanation.

"Squire will save me," she said to herself—"if it's proved that I were with Squire I am safe. I'll go to him now—I'll tell 'im all at once. It's late, very late, and it's dark outside, but I'll go."

Hetty left the room, leaving the dog behind her—he uttered a frightful howl when she did so and followed her as far as the door—she shut and locked the door—he scratched at it to try and release himself, but Hetty took no notice—she was cruel as regarded the dumb beast's fear in her own agony and terror.

She ran upstairs to her room, put on her hat and jacket, and went out. Stumbling and trembling, she went along the road until she reached the summit of the hill which led straight down in a gentle slope toward Grandcourt. She was glad the ground sloped downward, for it was important that she should quicken her footsteps in order to see the Squire with as little delay as possible. She was quite oblivious of the lapse of time since her last visit, and hoped he might still be in the office. She resolved to try the office first. If he were not there she would go on to the house—find him she must; nothing should keep her from his presence to-night.

She presently reached Grandcourt, entered the grounds by a side entrance and pursued her way through the darkness. The sky overhead was cloudy, neither moon nor stars were visible. Faltering and falling she pressed forward, and by and by reached the neighborhood of the office. She saw a light burning dimly behind the closed blinds—her heart beat with a sense of thankfulness—she staggered up to the door, brushing her dress against the door as she did so—she put up her hand and knocked feebly. The next instant the door was opened to her—a man, a total stranger, confronted her, but behind him she saw Awdrey. She tottered into the room.

The comparative light and warmth within, after the darkness and chilly damp of the spring evening, made her head reel, and her eyes at first could take in no object distinctly. She was conscious of uttering excited words, then she heard the door shut behind her. She looked round—she was alone with the Squire. She staggered up to him, and fell on her knees.

"You must save me as I saved you long ago," she panted.

"What is it? Get up. What do you mean?" said Awdrey.

"I mean, Squire—oh! I mean I wanted to come to you to-day, but Vincent,"—her voice faltered—"Vincent were mad wi' jealousy. He thought that I ought not to see you, Squire; he had got summat in his brain, and it made him mad. He thought that, perhaps, long ago, Squire, I loved you—long ago. I'm not afeared to say anything to-night, the truth will out to-night—I loved you long ago, I love you still; yes, yes, with all my heart, with all my heart. You never cared nothin' for me, I know that well. You never did me a wrong in thought or in deed, I know that well also; but to me you were as a god, and I loved you, I love you still, and Vincent, my husband, he must have seen it in my face; but you did me no wrong—never, in word or in deed—only loved you—and I love you still."

"You must be mad, girl," said Awdrey. "Why have you come here to tell me that? Get up at once; your words and your actions distress me much. Get up, Hetty; try to compose yourself."

"What I have come to say had best be said kneeling," replied Hetty; "it eases the awful pain in my side to kneel. Let me be, Squire; let me kneel up against your father's desk. Ah! that's better. It is my heart—I think it's broke; anyhow, it beats awful, and the pain is awful."

"If you have come for any other reason than to say the words you have just said, say them and go," replied Awdrey.

Hetty glanced up at him. His face was hard, she thought it looked cruel, she shivered from head to foot. Was it for this man she had sacrificed her life? Then the awful significance of her errand came over her, and she proceeded to speak.

"Vincent saw the truth in my face," she continued. "Anyhow, he was mad wi' jealousy, and he said that I worn't to come and see yer. He heard me speak to yer last night, he heard me say it's a matter o' life and death and he wor mad. He said I worn't to come; but I wor mad too, mad to come, and I thought I'd get over him by guile. I put summat in his stout, and he drank it—summat, I don't know the name, but I had took it myself and it always made me a sight better, and I gave it to 'im in his stout and he drank it, and then he slept. He lay down on the settle in the kitchen, and he went off into a dead sleep. When he slept real sound I stole away and I come to you. I saw you this evening and you spoke to me and I spoke to you, and I begged of you to keep our secret, and I thought perhaps you would, and I come away feelin' better. I went back 'ome, and the place were quiet, and I got into the kitchen. Vincent was lying on the settle sound asleep. I thought nought o' his sleepin', only to be glad, for I knew he'd never have missed me. I made his supper for him, and built up the fire, and I lit the lamps in the house, and I took off my outdoor things. The dog howled, but I didn't take no notice. Presently I went up to Vincent, and I shook 'im—I shook 'im, 'ard, but he didn't wake. I took his hand in mine, it wor cold as ice; I listened for his breath, there wor none. Squire," said Hetty, rising now to her feet, "my man wor dead; Squire, I have killed 'im, just the same as you killed the man on Salisbury Plain six years ago. My husband is dead, and I have killed him. Squire, you must save me as I saved you."

"How?" asked Awdrey. His voice had completely altered now. In the presence of the real tragedy all the hardness had left it. He sank into a chair near Hetty's side, he even took one of her trembling hands in his.

"How am I to help you, you poor soul?" he said again.

"You must prove an alibi—that's the word. You must say 'Hetty wor wi' me, she couldn't have killed her man,' you must say that; you must tell all the world that you and me was together here."

"I'll do better than that," said Awdrey suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Hetty started back and gazed at him with a queer mixture of hope and terror in her face. "Better—but there ain't no better," she cried. "Ef you don't tell the simple truth I'll be hanged; hanged by the neck until I die—I, who saved you at the risk of my own soul nearly six years gone."

"I'll not let you be hanged," said Awdrey, rising. "Get up, Hetty; do not kneel to me. You don't quite know what you have done for me to-night. Sit on that chair—compose yourself—try to be calm. Hetty, you just came in the nick of time. God and the devil were fighting for my soul. In spite of all the devil's efforts God was getting the better of it, and I—I didn't want him to get the best. I wanted the devil to help me, and, Hetty, I even prayed to him that he might come and help me. When I saw you coming into the room I thought at first that my prayer was answered. I seemed to see the devil on your face. Now I see differently—your presence has lifted a great cloud from before my mind—I see distinctly, almost as distinctly as if I were in hell itself, the awful consequences which must arise from wrong-doing. Hetty, I have made up my mind; you, of all people, have been the most powerful advocate on the side of God to-night. We will both do the right, child—we will confess the simple truth."

"No, Squire, no; they'll kill me, they'll kill me, if you don't help me in the only way you can help me—you are stronger than me, Squire—don't lead me to my death."

"They won't kill you, but you must tell the whole truth as I will tell the truth. It can be proved that you gave the poison to your husband with no intent to kill—that matter can be arranged promptly. Come with me, Hetty, now—let us come together. If you falter I'll strengthen you; if I falter you'll strengthen me. We will go together at once and tell—tell what you saw and what I did nearly six years ago."

"What you did on Salisbury Plain?" she asked.

"Yes, the time I killed that man."

"Never, never," she answered; she fell flat on her face on the floor.

Awdrey went to her and tried to raise her up.

"Come," he said, "I have looked into the very heart of evil, and I cannot go on with it—whatever the consequence we must both tell the truth—and we will do it together; come at once."

"You don't know what will happen to you," said Hetty. She shivered as she lay prone before him.

"No matter—nothing could happen so bad as shutting away the face of God. I'll tell all, and you must tell all. No more lies for either of us. We will save our souls even if our bodies die."

"The pain—the pain in my side," moaned Hetty.

"It will be better after we have gone through what is before us. Come, I'll take your hand."

She gave it timidly; the Squire's fingers closed over it.

"Where are we to go?" she asked. "Where are you taking me?"

"Come with me. I'll speak. Presently it will be your turn—after they know all, all the worst, it will be your turn to speak."

"Who are to know all, Squire?"

"My wife, my sisters, Mrs. Everett, my friends."

"Oh, God, God, why was I ever born!" moaned Hetty.

"You'll feel better afterward," said Awdrey. "Try and remember that in the awful struggle and ordeal of the next few minutes your soul and mine will be born again—they will be saved—saved from the power of evil. Be brave, Hetty. You told me to-night that you loved me—prove the greatness of your love by helping me to save my own soul and yours."

"I wonder if this is true," said Hetty. "You seem to lift me out of myself." She spoke in a sort of dull wonder.

"It is true—it is right—it is the only thing; come at once."

She did not say any more, nor make the least resistance. They left the office together. They trod softly on the gravel path which led to the main entrance of the old house. They both entered the hall side by side. Hetty looked pale and untidy; her hair fell partly down her back; there were undried tears on her cheeks; her eyes had a wild and startled gleam in them; the Squire was also deadly pale, but he was quiet and composed. The fierce struggle which had nearly rent his soul in two was completely over at that moment. In the calm there was also peace, and the peace had settled on his face.

Mrs. Henessey was standing in the wide entrance hall. She started when she saw her brother; then she glanced at Hetty, then she looked again at the Squire.

"Why, Robert!" she said, "Robert!"

There was an expression about Hetty's face and about Awdrey's face which silenced and frightened her.

"What is it?" she said in a low voice, "what is wrong?"

"Where are the others?" asked the Squire. "I want to see them all immediately."

"They are in the front drawing-room—Margaret, Dr. Rumsey, Dorothy, my husband and Dorothy's, and Margaret's uncle, Mr. Cuthbert."

"I am glad he is there; we shall want a magistrate," said Awdrey.

"A magistrate! What is the matter?"

"You will know in a moment, Anne. Did you say Rumsey was in the drawing-room?"

"Yes; they are all there. Margaret is playing the "Moonlight Sonata"—you hear it, don't you through the closed doors—she played so mournfully that I ran away—I hate music that affects me to tears."

Awdrey bent down and said a word to Hetty; then he looked at his sister.

"I am going into the drawing-room, and Hetty Vincent will come with me," he said.

"I used to know you as Hetty Armitage," said Anne. "How are you, Hetty?"

"She is not well," answered Awdrey for her, "but she will tell you presently. Come into the drawing-room, too, Anne; I should like you to be present."

"I cannot understand this," said Anne. She ran on first and opened the great folding-doors—she entered the big room, her face ablaze with excitement and wonder—behind her came Awdrey holding Hetty's hand. There was an expression on the Squire's face which arrested the attention of every one present. Mr. Cuthbert, who had not seen him since his return home, rose eagerly from the deep arm-chair into which he had sunk, intending to give him a hearty welcome, but when he had advanced in the Squire's direction a step or two, he paused—he seemed to see by a sort of intuition that the moment for ordinary civilities was not then. Margaret left her seat by the piano and came almost into the centre of the room. Her husband's eyes seemed to motion her back—her uncle went up to her and put his hand on her shoulder; he did not know what he expected, nor did Margaret, but each one in the room felt with an electric thrill of sympathy that a revelation of no ordinary nature was about to be made.

Still holding Hetty's hand, Awdrey came into the great space in front of the fireplace; he was about to speak when Rumsey came suddenly forward.

"One moment," he said. "This young woman is very ill; will some one fetch brandy?" He took Hetty's slight wrist between his finger and thumb, and felt the fluttering pulse.

Anne rushed away to get the brandy. The doctor mixed a small dose, and made Hetty swallow it. The stimulant brought back a faint color to her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dull and dazed.

"I have come into this room to-night with Hetty Vincent, who used to be Hetty Armitage, to make a very remarkable statement," said Awdrey.

Rumsey backed a few steps. He thought to himself: "We shall get now to the mystery. He has made up his mind on the side of the good—brave fellow! What can all this mean? What is the matter with that pretty girl? She looks as if she were dying. What can be the connection between them?"

"What can be the connection between them?" was also the thought running in the minds of every other spectator. Margaret shared it, as her uncle's hand rested a little heavier moment by moment on her slight shoulder. Squire Cuthbert was swearing heavily under his breath. The sisters and their husbands stood in the background, prepared for any "denouement"—all was quietness and expectancy. Mrs. Everett, who up to the present instant had taken no part in the extraordinary scene, hurried now to the front.

"Squire," she said, "I don't know what you are going to say, but I can guess. In advance, however, I thank you from my heart; a premonition seizes me that the moment of my son's release is at hand. You have got this young woman to reveal her secret?"

"Her secret is mine," said Awdrey.

Squire Cuthbert swore aloud.

"Just wait one moment before you say anything," said Awdrey, fixing his eyes on him. "The thing is not what you imagine. I can tell the truth in half-a-dozen words. Mrs. Everett, you are right—you see the man before you who killed Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain. Your son is innocent."

"My God! You did this?" said Mrs. Everett.

"Robert, what are you saying?" cried Margaret.

"Robert!" echoed Anne.

"Dear brother, you must be mad!" exclaimed Dorothy.

"No, I am sane—I am sure I was mad for a time, but now I am quite sane to-night. I killed Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain. Hetty Vincent saw the murder committed; she hid her knowledge for my sake. Immediately after I committed the deed the doom of my house fell upon me, and I forgot what I myself had done. For five years I had no memory of my own act. Rumsey, when I saw my face reflected in the pond, six months ago, the knowledge of the truth returned to me. I remembered what I had done. I remembered, and I was not sorry, and I resolved to hide the truth to the death; my conscience, the thing which makes the difference between man and beast, never awoke within me—I was happy and I kept well. But yesterday—yesterday when I came home and saw my people and saw Hetty here, and noticed the look of suffering on your face, Mrs. Everett, the voice of God began to make itself heard. From that moment until now my soul and the powers of evil have been fighting against the powers of good. I was coward enough to think that I might hide the truth and suffer, and live the life of a hypocrite." The Squire's voice, which had been quite quiet and composed, faltered now for the first time. "It could not be done," he added. "I found I could not close with the devil."

At this moment a strange thing happened. Awdrey's wife rushed up to him, she flung her arms round his neck, and laid her head on his breast.

"Thank God!" she murmured. "Nothing matters, for you have saved your soul alive."

Awdrey pushed back his wife's hair, and kissed her on her forehead.

"But this is a most remarkable thing," said Mr. Cuthbert, finding his tongue, and coming forward. "You, Awdrey—you, my niece's husband, come quietly into this room and tell us with the utmost coolness that you are a murderer. I cannot believe it—you must be mad."

"No, I am perfectly sane. Hetty Vincent can prove the truth of my words. I am a murderer, but not by intent. I never meant to kill Frere; nevertheless, I am a murderer, for I have taken a man's life."

"You tell me this?" said Squire Cuthbert. "You tell me that you have suffered another man to suffer in your stead for close on six years."

"Unknowingly, Squire Cuthbert. There was a blank over my memory."

"I can testify to that," said Rumsey, now coming forward. "The whole story is so astounding, so unprecedented, that I am not the least surprised at your all being unable to make a just estimate of the true circumstances at the present moment. Nevertheless, Awdrey tells the simple truth. I have watched him as my patient for years. I have given his case my greatest attention. I consider it one of the most curious psychological studies which has occurred in the whole of my wide experience. Awdrey killed Horace Frere, and forgot all about it. The deed was doubtless done in a moment of strong irritation."

"He was provoked to it," said Hetty, speaking for the first time.

"It will be necessary that you put all that down in writing," said Rumsey, giving her a quick glance. "Squire, I begin to see a ghost of daylight. It is possible that you may be saved from the serious consequences of your own act, if it can be proved before a jury that you committed the terrible deed as a means of self-protection."

"It was for that," said Hetty again. "I can tell exactly what I saw."

The excited people who were listening to this narrative now began to move about and talk eagerly and rapidly. Rumsey alone altogether kept his head. He saw how ill Hetty was, and how all-important her story would be if there was any chance of saving Awdrey. It must be put in writing without delay.

"Come and sit here," he said, taking the girl's hand and leading her to a chair. All the others shrank away from her, but Mrs. Everett, whose eyes were blazing with a curious combination of passionate anger and wild, exultant joy, came close up to her for a moment.

"Little hypocrite—little spy!" she hissed. "Don't forget that you have committed perjury. Your sentence will be a severe one."

"Hush," said Rumsey, "is this a moment—?" A look in his eyes silenced the widow—she shrank away near one of the windows to relieve her overcharged feelings in a burst of tears.

"Sit here and tell me exactly what you saw," said Rumsey to Hetty. "Mr. Cuthbert, you are doubtless a magistrate?"

"Bless my stars, I don't know what I am at the present moment," said the worthy Squire, mopping his crimson brow.

"Try to retain your self-control—remember how much hangs on it. This young woman is very ill—it will be all important that we get her deposition before——" Rumsey paused; Hetty's eyes were fixed on his face, her lips moved faintly.

"You may save the Squire after all if you tell the simple truth," said Rumsey kindly, bending toward her and speaking in a low voice. "Try and tell the simple truth. I know you are feeling ill, but you will be better afterward. Will you tell me exactly what happened? I shall put it down in writing. You will then sign your own deposition."

"I'll tell the truth," said Hetty—"is it the case that if I tell just the truth I may save Squire?"

"It is his only chance. Now begin."

The others crowded round when Hetty began to speak; all but Mrs. Everett, who still sat in the window, her face buried in her handkerchief.

Hetty began her tale falteringly, often trembling and often pausing, but Rumsey managed to keep her to the point. By and by the whole queer story was taken down and was then formally signed and sworn to. Rumsey finally folded up the paper and gave it to Squire Cuthbert to keep.

"I have a strong hope that we may clear Awdrey," he said. "The case is a clear one of manslaughter which took place in self-defence. Mrs. Vincent's deposition is most important, for it not only shows that Awdrey committed the unfortunate deed under the strongest provocation, but explains exactly why Frere should have had such animosity to the Squire. Now, Mrs. Vincent, you have rendered a very valuable service, and as you are ill we cannot expect you to do anything further to-night."

Here Rumsey looked full at Margaret.

"I think this young woman far too unwell to leave the house," he said—"can you have a room prepared for her here?"

"Certainly," said Margaret; she went up to Hetty and laid one of her hands on her shoulder.

"Before Hetty leaves the room, there is something to be said on her own account," said the Squire.

He then related in a few words the tragedy which had taken place at the Gable Farm. While he was speaking, Hetty suddenly staggered to her feet and faced them.

"If what I have told to-night will really save you, Squire, then nothing else matters," she said; "I'm not afeared now, for ef I 'ave saved you at last, nothing matters,"—her face grew ghastly white, she tumbled in a heap to the floor.

The doctor, Margaret, and the Squire rushed to her assistance, but when they raised her up she was dead.

"Heart disease," said Rumsey, afterward, "accelerated by shock."

A few more words can finish this strange story. At the Squire's own request, Mr. Cuthbert took the necessary steps for his arrest, and Rumsey hurried to town to get the interference of the Home Secretary in the case of Everett, who was suffering for Awdrey's supposed crime in Portland prison. The doctor had a long interview with one of the officials at the Home Office, and disclosed all the queer circumstances of the case. Everett, according to the Queen's Prerogative, received in due course a free pardon for the crime he had never committed, and was restored to his mother and his friends once again.

Awdrey's trial took place almost immediately afterward at Salisbury. The trial was never forgotten in that part of the country, and was the one topic of conversation for several days in the length and breadth of England. So remarkable and strange a case had never before been propounded for the benefit of the jury, but it was evident that the very learned Judge who conducted the trial was from the first on the side of the prisoner.

Hetty's all-important deposition made a great sensation; her evidence was corroborated by Mrs. Armitage, and when Rumsey appeared as a witness he abundantly proved that Awdrey had completely forgotten the deed of which he had been guilty. His thrilling description of his patient's strange case was listened to with breathless attention by a crowded court. The trial lasted for two days, during which the anxiety of all Awdrey's friends can be better imagined than described. At the end of the trial, the jury returned a verdict of "Not Guilty." In short, his strange case had been abundantly proved: he had done what he did without intent to kill and simply as a means of self-defence.

On the evening of his return to Grandcourt, he and Margaret stood in the porch together side by side. It was a moonlight night, and the whole beautiful place was brightly illuminated.

"Robert," said the wife, "you have lived through it all—you will now take a fresh lease of life."

He shook his head.

"It is true that I have gone through the fire and been saved," he said, "but there is a shadow over me—I can never be the man I might have been."

"You can be a thousand times better," she replied with flashing eyes, "for you have learned now the bitter and awful lesson of how a man may fall, rise again, and in the end conquer."

THE END.