But the round of Lucy's life, with its dreams and its fond imaginings, was interrupted by news of a different character. An official letter came to her from Parkhurst to say that the grave state of her father's health had the authorities to the rest of his sentence, and he would be set free the next day but one at eight o'clock in the morning. She knew not whether to feel relief or sorrow; for if she was thankful that the wretched man's long torture was ended, she could not but realise that his liberty was given him only because he was dying. Mercy had been shown him, and Fred Allerton, in sight of a freedom from which no human laws could bar him, was given up to die among those who loved him.  
Lucy went down immediately to the of Wight, and there engaged rooms in the house of a woman who had served her at Hamlyn's Purlieu.
 
It was midwinter, and a cold was falling when she waited for him at the prison gates. Three years had passed since they had parted. She took him in her arms and kissed him silently. Her heart was too full for words. A carriage was waiting for them, and she drove to the lodging-house; breakfast was ready, and Lucy had seen that good things which he liked should be ready for him to eat. Fred Allerton looked wistfully at the clean table-cloth, and at the flowers and the dainty ; but he shook his head. He did not speak, and the tears ran slowly down his cheeks. He sank wearily into a chair. Lucy tried to induce him to eat; she brought him a cup of tea, but he put it away. He looked at her with haggard, bloodshot eyes.
 
'Give me the flowers,' he muttered.
 
They were his first words. There was a large bowl of daffodils in the middle of the table, and she took them out of the water, dried their stalks, and gave them to him. He took them with trembling hands and pressed them to his heart, then he buried his face in them, and the tears ran afresh, bedewing the yellow flowers.
 
Lucy put her arm around her father's neck and placed her cheek against his.
 
'Don't, father,' she whispered. 'You must try and forget.'
 
He leaned back, , and the pretty flowers fell at his feet.
 
'You know why they've let me out?' he said.
 
She kissed him, but did not answer.
 
'I'm so glad that we're together again,' she murmured.
 
'It's because I'm going to die.'
 
'No, you mustn't die. In a little while you'll get strong again. You have many years before you, and you'll be very happy.'
 
He gave her a long, searching look; and when he , his voice had a hollowness in it that was strangely terrifying.
 
'Do you think I want to live?'
 
The pain seemed almost greater than Lucy could bear, and for a moment she had to remain silent so that her voice might grow steady.
 
'You must live for my sake.'
 
'Don't you hate me?' he asked.
 
'No, I love you more than I ever did. I shall never cease to love you.'
 
'I suppose no one would marry you while I was in prison.'
 
His remark was so inconsequent that Lucy found nothing to say. He gave a bitter, short laugh.
 
'I ought to have shot myself. Then people would have forgotten all about it, and you might have had a chance. Why didn't you marry Bobbie?'
 
'I haven't wanted to marry.'
 
He was so tired that he could only speak a little at a time, and now he closed his eyes. Lucy thought that he was , and began to pick up the fallen flowers. But he noticed what she was doing.
 
'Let me hold them,' he moaned, with the pleading quaver of a sick child.
 
As she gave them to him once more, he took her hands and began to them.
 
'The only thing for me is to hurry up and finish with life. I'm in the way. Nobody wants me, and I shall only be a burden. I didn't want them to let me go. I wanted to die there quietly.'
 
Lucy sighed deeply. She hardly recognised her father in the , broken man who was sitting beside her. He had very much and seemed now to be an old man, but it was a aging, and there was a horror in it as of a process contrary to nature. He was very thin, and his hands trembled constantly. Most of his teeth had gone; his cheeks were sunken, and he his words so that it was difficult to distinguish them. There was no light in his eyes, and his short hair was quite white. Now and again he was shaken with a racking cough, and this was followed by an attack of such pain in his heart that it was even to watch it. The room was warm, but he shivered with cold and over the roaring fire.
 
When the doctor whom Lucy had sent for, saw him, he could only his shoulders.
 
'I'm afraid nothing can be done,' he said. 'His heart is all wrong, and he's broken up.'
 
'Is there no chance of recovery?'
 
'I'm afraid all we can do is to the pain.'
 
'And how long can he live?'
 
'It's impossible to say. He may die to-morrow, he may last six months.'
 
The doctor was an old man, and his heart was touched by the sight of Lucy's grief. He had seen more cases than one of this kind.
 
'He doesn't want to live. It will be a mercy when death releases him.'
 
Lucy did not answer. When she returned to her father, she could not speak. He was and did not ask what the doctor had said. Lady Kelsey, hating the thought of Lucy and her father living amid the of furnished , had written to offer the use of her house in Charles Street; and Mrs. Crowley, in case they wanted complete , had put Court Leys at their disposal. Lucy waited a few days to see whether her father grew stronger, but no change was apparent in him, and it seemed necessary at last to make some decision. She put before him the alternative plans, but he would have none of them.
 
'Then would you rather stay here?' she said.
 
He looked at the fire and did not answer. Lucy thought the sense of her question had escaped him, for often it appeared to her that his mind wandered. She was on the point of repeating it when he spoke.
 
'I want to go back to the Purlieu.'
 
Lucy a of dismay. She stared at the wretched man. Had he forgotten? He thought that the house of his fathers was his still; and all that had parted him from it was gone from his memory. How could she tell him?
 
'I want to die in my own home,' he .
 
Lucy was in a of anxiety. She must make some reply. What he asked was impossible, and yet it was cruel to tell him the whole truth.
 
'There are people living there,' she answered.
 
'Are there?' he said, indifferently.
 
He looked at the fire still. The silence was dreadful.
 
'When can we go?' he said at last. 'I want to get there quickly.'
 
Lucy hesitated.
 
'We shall have to go into rooms.'
 
'I don't mind.'
 
He seemed to take everything as a matter of course. It was clear that he had forgotten the that had parted him from Hamlyn's Purlieu, and yet, strangely, he asked no questions. Lucy was tortured by the thought of revisiting the place she loved so well. She had been able to deaden her regret only by keeping her mind from all thoughts of it,............