The boy's lip quivered at the mention of that name, and he answered, hastily: "Fader wrote moder Mr. Fleet was no better. I fear he die;" and in an agony of grief he turned and ran sobbing away. From under her veil Christine's tears were falling fast also, and she entered her elegant home as if it had been a prison. CHAPTER XXXIV REGRET The next day was the Sabbath, and a long, dreary one it was to Christine. But late in the afternoon Susie Winthrop came with a pale, troubled face. "Oh, Christine, have you heard the news?" she exclaimed. Christine's heart stood still with fear, but by a great effort she said, composedly, "What news?" "Mr. Fleet has gone home very ill; indeed, he is not expected to live." For a moment she did not answer, and when she did it was with a voice unnaturally hard and cold: "Have you heard what is the matter?" Miss Winthrop wondered at her manner, but replied, "Brain fever, I am told." "Is he delirious?" asked Christine, in a low tone. "Yes, all the time. Ernst, the little office-boy, told me he did not know his own mother. It seems that the boy's father is with Mrs. Fleet, helping take care of him." Christine's face was averted and so colorless that it seemed like marble. "Oh, Christine, don't you care?" said Susie, springing up and coming toward her. "Why should I care?" was the quick answer. Susie could not know that it was in reality but an incoherent cry of pain--the blind, desperate effort of pride to shield itself. But the tone checked her steps and filled her face with reproach. "Perhaps you have more reason to care than you choose to admit," she said, pointedly. Christine flushed, but said, coldly: "Of course I feel an interest in the fate of Mr. Fleet, as I do in that of every passing acquaintance. I feel very sorry for him and his friends"; but never was sympathy expressed in a voice more unnaturally frigid. Susie looked at her keenly, and again saw the tell-tale flush rising to her cheek. She was puzzled, but saw that her friend had no confidence to give, and she said, with a voice growing somewhat cold also: "Well, really, Christine, I thought you capable of seeing as much as the rest of us in such matters, but I must be mistaken, if you only recognized in Dennis Fleet a passing acquaintance. Well, if he dies I doubt if either you or I look upon his equal again. Under right influences he might have been one of the first and most useful men of his day. But they need not tell me it was overwork that killed him. I know it was trouble of some kind." Christine was very pale, but said nothing; and Susie, pained and mystified that the confidence of other days was refused, bade her friend a rather cold and abrupt adieu.