"That's true!" said Sir Norman, in a subdued tone, "and if such
should unhappily be the case, nothing will remain but to live in
hopes that he may be carried off by the plague."

"Pray Heaven that we may not be carried off by it ourselves!"
said Ormiston, with a slight shudder. "I shall dream of nothing
but that horrible plague-pit for a week. If it were not for La
Masque, I would not stay another hour in this pest-stricken
city."

"Here we are," was Sir Norman's rather inapposite answer, as they
entered Piccadilly, and stopped before a large and handsome
house, whose gloomy portal was faintly illuminated by a large
lamp. "Here, my man just carry the lady in."

He unlocked the door as he spoke, and led the way across a long
hall to a sleeping chamber, elegantly fitter up. The man placed
the body on the bed and departed while Sir Norman, seizing a
handbell, rang a peal that brought a staid-looking housekeeper to
the scene directly. Seeing a lady, young and beautiful, in bride
robes, lying apparently dead on her young master's bed at that
hour of the night, the discreet matron, over whose virtuous head
fifty years and a snow-white cap had passed, started back with a
slight scream.

"Gracious me, Sir Norman! What on earth is the meaning of this?"

"My dear Mrs. Preston," began Sir Norman blandly, "this young lady
is ill of the plague, and - "