A thin cold rain was falling, and the night was cheerless, and without a star; but his heart was heavy, and the dreariness without best suited that within him. For more than an hour he continued his lonely walk, tormented by all the miseries his active ingenuity could muster. To have brought sorrow and mourning beneath the roof where you have been sheltered with kindness is sad enough, but far sadder is it to connect the calamity you have caused with one dearer to you than yourself, and whose innocence, while assured of, you cannot vindicate. “My father never wronged this man, for the simple reason that he has never been unjust to any one. It is a gross injustice to accuse him! If Colonel Barrington forfeited my father's friendship, who could doubt where the fault lay? But I will not leave the matter questionable. I will write to my father and ask him to send me such a reply as may set the issue at rest forever; and then I will come down here, and, with my father's letter in my hand, say, 'The mention of my name was enough, once on a time, to make you turn away from me on the very threshold of your own door--'” When he had got thus far in his intended appeal, his ear was suddenly struck by the word “Conyers,” uttered by one of two men who had passed him the moment before, and now stood still in one of the projections of the bridge to talk. He as hastily recognized Dr. Dill as the speaker. He went on thus: “Of course it was mere raving, but one must bear in mind that memory very often is the prompter of these wanderings; and it was strange how persistently he held to the one theme, and continued to call out, 'It was not fair, sir! It was not manly! You know it yourself, Conyers; you cannot deny it!'” “But you attach no importance to such wanderings, doctor?” asked one whose deep-toned voice betrayed him to be Stapylton. “I do; that is, to the extent I have mentioned. They are incoherencies, but they are not without some foundation. This Conyers may have had his share in that famous accusation against Colonel Barrington,--that well-known charge I told you of; and if so, it is easy to connect the name with these ravings.” “And the old man will die of this attack,” said Stapylton, half musingly. “I hope not. He has great vigor of constitution; and old as he is, I think he will rub through it.” “Young Conyers left for Kilkenny, then, immediately?” asked he. “No; he came down here, to the village. He is now at the inn.” “At the inn, here? I never knew that. I am sorry I was not aware of it, doctor; but since it is so, I will ask of you not to speak of having seen me here. He would naturally take it ill, as his brother officer, that I did not make him out, while, as you see, I was totally ignorant of his vicinity.” “I will say nothing on the subject, Captain,” said the doctor. “And now one word of advice from you on a personal matter. This young gentleman has offered to be of service to my son--”