'I have not. Mr. Hunter is not a man who will submit to be questioned, even by me. But, Austin, I cannot help thinking that this objection to you may fade away--for, that he likes and esteems you greatly, I know. Should that time come, then tell him that I loved you--that I wished Florence to become your wife--that I prayed God to bless the union. And then tell Florence.' 'Will you not tell her yourself?' Mrs. Hunter made a feeble gesture of denial. 'It would seem like an encouragement to dispute the decision of her father. Austin, will you say farewell, and send my husband to me? I am growing faint.' He clasped her attenuated hands in both his; he bent down, and kissed her forehead. Mrs. Hunter held him to her. 'Cherish and love her always, should she become yours,' was the feeble whisper. 'And come to me, come to me, both of you, in eternity.' A moment or two in the corridor to compose himself, and Austin met Mr. Hunter on the stairs, and gave him the message. 'How is Baxendale?' Mr. Hunter stayed to ask. 'A trifle better. Not yet out of danger.' 'You take care to give him the allowance weekly?' 'Of course I do, sir. It is due to-night, and I am going to take it to him.' 'Will he ever be fit for work again?'--'I hope so.' Another word or two on the subject of Baxendale, the attack on whom Mr. Hunter most bitterly resented, and Austin departed. Mr. Hunter entered his wife's chamber. Florence, who was also entering, Mrs. Hunter feebly waved away. 'I would be a moment alone with your father, my child. James,' Mrs. Hunter said to her husband, as Florence retired--but her voice was now so reduced that he had to bend his ear to catch the sounds--'there has been estrangement between us on one point for many years: and it seems--I know not why--to be haunting my death-bed. Will you not, in this my last hour, tell me its cause?' 'It would not give you peace, Louisa. It concerns myself alone.' 'Whatever the secret may be, it has been wearing your life out. I ought to know it.' Mr. Hunter bent lower. 'My dear wife, it would not bring you peace, I say. I contracted an obligation in my youth,' he whispered, in answer to the yearning glance thrown up to him, 'and I have had to pay it off--one sum after another, one after another, until it has nearly drained me. It will soon be at an end now.' 'Is it nearly paid?'--'Ay. All but.' 'But why not have told me this? It would have saved me many a troubled hour. Suspense, when fancy is at work, is hard to bear. And you, James: why should simple debt, if it is that, have worked so terrible a fear upon you?' 'I did not know that I could stave it off: looking back, I wonder that I did do it. I could have borne ruin for myself: I could not, for you.' 'Oh, James!' she fondly said, 'should I have been less brave? While you and Florence were spared to me, ruin might have done its worst.' Mr. Hunter turned his face away: strangely wrung and haggard it looked just then. 'What a mercy that it is over!'