It was a sweet bright evening in the end of March, with the sky, through which the sun was dipping down towards his rest, so rich and warm, that one might have taken it for the beginning of October, had it not been for the almanack, and for the tender green of the trees, and the flood of untaught melody that came pouring from every bush. The road led down to where there are two or three scattered houses of a better class--which they call _les maisons bourgeois_--built upon the slope of a little dell at the back of the town, between it and the rise of the mountains. In one of these, with the face looking through the valley of the Glantine to the open country beyond, was the house now occupied by the widow. It was easily found, and Beauchamp and his sister paused ere they entered, to gaze for a moment on the rich view, lying calm and purple under the evening sky, while the dark masses of hill on the other hand--rising up from a base of mingled wood and pasture, with the small chateau that Miss Beauchamp had so much admired, breaking the line of the trees--towered up in solemn majesty above the whole. The door was open, and Beauchamp entering first, proceeded into one of the rooms, where he heard some one speaking. The widow and her son were sitting together near the window, and both rose (though the latter moved with difficulty) to receive their benefactor. "Here is my sister come to see you, Mrs. Harrison," he said as he entered. "Sit down, Walter. I am sorry to hear that the journey has made you so ill, my poor fellow;" and taking a seat opposite to him--while Miss Beauchamp beckoned Mrs. Harrison out to the door, in order to leave her brother's conversation more at liberty--he gazed upon the sunk but hectic cheek of the young sailor, and the dazzling brightness of his feverish eye. "It was not the journey, sir," replied the young man, with a shake of the head, mournful, but not discontented. "It was not the journey;" and then looking round to see that his mother was not there, he added--"I told you, sir, it would not last long, and I thank God for it; for I have never forgiven myself; and every hour that I linger on is a reproach to my heart. So now that I know mother will be cared for, and that I have shown my gratitude to you and to the captain, God bless him--and that I have learned to think better than I used--I don't care how soon it comes to an end. But, sir," he continued quickly, as if he had forgot to do so before, "I ought to thank you deeply for all your kindness; and especially, I am sure, for taking the trouble to come and see me to-night, when there are so many things you must have to do and talk about." The young man's eyes gazed vacantly out upon the prospect as he spoke. "He wanders!" thought Beauchamp. "I have heard physicians say, that it is the sign of approaching death with consumptive people."