Nathanael ran to him, “Father, father, you will destroy yourself. What is it you want?” The answer was unintelligible to his son, but Agatha gathered from it that the chamber-door was to be shut and bolted. She did so; yet even then the sick man's fury scarce abated. Broken words--curses that the helpless lips refused to ratify; terrible outbursts of wrath, mingled with the piteous moan of senility. Last of all came the name, once given proudly by the young father to his first-born, and now gasped out with maledictions from the same father's dying lips--“Frederick.” Nathanael and Agatha looked at one another with horror. They both knew that the old Squire was bent on driving from his death-bed his own, his first-born son. Agatha instinctively held down the palsied hands, which were trying to lift themselves towards heaven--not in prayers! “Father, don't say--don't even think such terrible things. Whatever he has done, forgive him!--for the love of God, forgive him!” The old man regarded her, and his excitement seemed redoubled. Agatha fancied it was the father's pride, dreading lest she, a stranger, knew the cause of his anger. “No, no!” she cried, “I scarcely understand anything; my husband would not tell me. Whatever has happened can all be hushed up. We would forgive anything to a brother--oh, would we not?” And she appealed to Nathanael, who stood motionless, great drops lying on his forehead, though his features were so still. “It is true, father,” he whispered. “No one knows anything but me, and I have kept your honour safe that he might redeem it some time. Perhaps he may. And remember, he is your son--the first-born of his mother. Hush, Agatha!” Nathanael continued, as he saw a sudden change come over the old man's face. “Don't say any more now. Leave me to talk with my father.” With the grave tenderness that he always showed her, he took his wife by the hand, led her to the door, and closed it. Greatly moved, yet feeling satisfied he would do what was right, Agatha obeyed and went down-stairs. The sisters and brother were assembled in the study. Marmaduke was there too, but took little part in the family lamentation, except in keeping a perpetual tender watch over the grief of his own Harrie. Anne Valery was absent. Frederick Harper sat apart. A sullen gloom had succeeded to his misery--with him no feeling ever lasted long, at least in the same form. Harriet and Eulalie were inspecting with great curiosity their elder brother, whose presence among his long-estranged household seemed accompanied with such a mysterious discomfort. They eyed him doubtfully, as if he had done something very wrong that nobody knew of. Mary only, who was next eldest to himself, ventured to address some kind words, and bestir herself about his comfort.