Bartley heard the weak voice, and staggered forward, and fell on his knees beside the bed. “Here, here! Here I am, Henry! Oh, Henry, I didn't intend--” He stopped at the word, and hid his face in the coverlet. The boy lay as if trying to make out what had happened, and the doctor told him that he had fainted. After a time, he put out his hand and laid it on Bartley's head. “Yes; but I don't understand what makes him cry.” They looked at Bartley, who had lifted his head, and he went over the whole affair, except so far as it related to Hannah Morrison; he did not spare himself; he had often found that strenuous self-condemnation moved others to compassion; and besides, it was his nature to seek the relief of full confession. But Henry heard him through with a blank countenance. “Don't you remember?” Bartley implored at last. “No, I don't remember. I only remember that there seemed to be something the matter with my head this morning.” “That was the trouble with me, too,” said Bartley. “I must have been crazy--I must have been insane--when I struck you. I can't account for it.” “I don't remember it,” answered the boy. “That's all right,” said the doctor. “Don't try. I guess you better let him alone, now,” he added to Bartley, with such a significant look that the young man retired from the bedside, and stood awkwardly apart. “He'll get along. You needn't be anxious about leaving him. He'll be better alone.” There was no mistaking this hint. “Well, well!” said Bartley, humbly, “I'll go. But I'd rather stay and watch with him,--I sha'n't eat or sleep till he's on foot again. And I can't leave till you tell me that you forgive me, Mrs. Bird. I never dreamed--I didn't intend--” He could not go on. “I don't suppose you meant to hurt Henry,” said the mother. “You always pretended to be so fond of him, and he thought the world of you. But I don't see how you could do it. I presume it was all right.” “No, it was all wrong,--or so nearly all wrong that I must ask your forgiveness on that ground. I loved him,--I thought the world of him, too. I'd ten thousand times rather have hurt myself,” pleaded Bartley. “Don't let me go till you say that you forgive me.” “I'll see how Henry gets along,” said Mrs. Bird. “I don't know as I could rightly say I forgive you just yet.” Doubtless she was dealing conscientiously with herself and with him. “I like to be sure of a thing when I say it,” she added. The doctor followed him into the hall, and Bartley could not help turning to him for consolation. “I think Mrs. Bird is very unjust, Doctor. I've done everything I could, and said everything to explain the matter; and I've blamed myself where I can't feel that I was to blame; and yet you see how she holds out against me.” “I dare say,” answered the doctor dryly, “she'll feel differently, as she says, if the boy gets along.” Bartley dropped his hat to the floor. “Get along! Why--why you think he'll get well _now_, don't you, Doctor?”