As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. But, being pushed forward by his subordinate officer, he was compelled to make a stand. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open.
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