The young man stood mournfully watching his father, until startled by a flash of fire-light on the canvas, his eyes wandered to the painted smile of his unknown mother, and then turned back again to the pillows--the same pillows where she died.. His fingers began to twitch nervously, though his features remained still. Slowly, Agatha saw large tears rise and roll down his cheeks. Her heart yearned over her husband, but she dared not speak. She could but weep--not outwardly, but inwardly, with exceeding bitter pangs. At length the old man stirred. Agatha remembered her duty as nurse, and hastily whispered her husband: “I think you should move aside for a minute. Don't let him see you suddenly--it will startle him.” “That is thoughtful of you. But who will tell him?” “I will--he is used to me. Are you awake, father?” Nathanael caught the word, and looked surprised. “Dear father,” she continued, soothingly, “will you not try to wake now? Here is some one come to see you--some one you will be glad to see.” The Squire's eyes grew wild; he uttered a thick, painful murmur. “Some one who was sure to come when he knew you were ill--your son.” She paused, shocked at the frenzied expression of the old man's face. “Nay--your younger son--Nathanael--may he come?” She perceived some faint assent, beckoned to her husband, saw him take her place at the bedside, and then stole away, leaving the son alone with his father. Agatha rejoined the rest of the family. They were all sitting talking together as Nathanael had left them. After her leaving, they said, he had hardly spoken at all, but had gone up directly after her. In about half-an-hour he re-appeared--greatly agitated. His sisters all turned to him as he entered, but he avoided their eyes. Agatha never lifted hers; she sat in a dim corner behind Miss Valery. “What do you think of him, Nathanael?” asked Mary, in a low voice. “I cannot yet tell; I want to hear how he was seized. Which of you saw most of him yesterday?” “No one, unless it was Agatha. He was shut up in his study until she came.” “And who has been most with him since?” “Agatha.” A soft expression dawned in the young man's eyes as they sought the dim corner. “Will Agatha tell me what _she_ thinks of my father's state?” This appeal, so direct--so unexpected--could not be gainsaid. Yet, when Nathanael addressed her, Agatha's agitation was so visible that it attracted observation--especially Mrs. Dugdale's. “Poor child!” said Harrie, compassionately, “how pale she looks!” “No wonder,” Mary added. “She is more worn out than any of us. She sat up all last night.” Nathanael's eyes were on his wife again, full of ineffable gentleness. “Agatha, come over and rest in this armchair. I want to talk to you about my father.” She obeyed. He spoke in a low voice: “I feel deeply your having been so kind to him.” “It was right. I was glad to do it.” “What do you think caused his illness?”