“Doctor Mason said it was probably some severe mental shock.” Nathanael looked alarmed. “Indeed! and did the rest of the family know anything?--guess anything?” “Nothing.” Her husband fixed on her a penetrating gaze; she returned it steadily. “Agatha,” he hurriedly said, “you are a sensible girl--more so than any of my sisters. I want to consult with you alone. Come and walk up and down the room with me where they cannot overhear us.” She did so. How strange it was! “Do you think my father had any sudden ill news? Did he see any person yesterday?” “A stranger came to him. Your brother's lawyer, Mr. Grimes.” “Grimes? Oh, my poor father!” He sat down abruptly. Agatha wondered at his mingling the two names. What should Grimes have to do with his father? “Did any one else see Grimes?” “I did.” “What did he say to you? Was it”--he dropped his head, and spoke half inaudibly--“Was it anything about my brother?” Agatha marvelled, even with a sort of pain. Father, brother, every one before her! “He never named Major Harper, that I can remember. But he said”-- “What?” Agatha drew back. How could she speak of such petty things as money and fortune then! She answered softly, and with a full heart: “Never mind. It was a mere trifle, not worth telling, or even thinking of now. Another time.” Nathanael regarded his wife doubtfully, but she bore the look. She was speaking the simple truth. Loss of fortune did seem “a mere trifle” now, when he was safe back again, and she sat in his presence, he talking to her as gently as in the olden time. Her simplicity in worldly things was so extreme that even Nathanael passed it over as impossible. He only said: “Well, all must come out ere long. We cannot think of it now. Tell me more about my poor father.” “There is little more to tell. His manner was rather strange, I thought, all dinner-time. He drank healths as usual--especially yours. His mind was wandering then, for he called you his _only_ son. Then Mr. Grimes gave another toast--Major Harper. At that moment your father fell from his chair.” Nathanael started up--“I knew it would be so. He could not bear such shame--my poor old father!” “Nathanael,” cried Harrie, from the fireside group, “come and give us your opinion. I say that he ought to be sent for at once.” “Who?” “Frederick” Nathanael cried out violently, as if self-control were no longer possible. “Never! Here have I used every effort, smothered every feeling, made every sacrifice, to save my poor father from knowing all this--and in vain! You may talk as you like, but I say Frederick shall never enter these doors. He is as good as his father's murderer.” “Hush!” cried Anne Valery, going to him while the others stood aghast. She only knew what fearful storms can be roused in these quiet natures. “I will not hush. I have been silent too long over his wrong-doing.” “But some”--breathed Anne scarce audibly--“some whom he wronged have been silent for a lifetime.”