'Of--of course no one is up yet?' he says, with an air that he, as he feels, in vain tries to make easy and disengaged. 'Oh yes, sir; her ladyship is up! Her ladyship has been up all night.' _Up all night!_ Then some one must be ill! Is it Harborough? Harborough ill? Will he die? In one thought-flash these questions, with all that for him and his future life an answer in the affirmative would imply, dart through his mind--dart with such a sickening dread that he can scarcely frame his next and most obvious question. 'Is any one ill, then?' For the first time the servant looks a little surprised. If it is not on account of the illness in the house why has Mr. Talbot presented himself at this extraordinary hour? 'Yes, sir; Master Harborough has been very ill for two days. Sir Andrew Clark and Dr. Ridge Jones came down yesterday to see him, and he was hardly expected to live through the night.' Master Harborough! Not expected to live through the night! At this news, so entirely unlooked for--since, amongst all the possibilities whose faces he has been scanning, that of something having happened to the children has never once presented itself--Talbot stands stock-still, rooted to the spot, in sad amazement. Poor little Master Harborough! In a moment he is seeing him again as he had last seen him--seen the little sturdy figure that, in its rosy vigour, seemed to be shaking its small fist in defiance at age, or decay, or death. Yes; he sees him again--sees, too, his mother, laughing at his naughtiness, bragging of his strength, smothering him with her kisses. Poor, poor Betty! A great rush of compassionate tenderness floods his heart towards the woman against whom he had just been harshly shutting that heart's doors; discrediting her truth; grudging the service she has asked of him; crediting her even in his thoughts with the indecency of summoning him to her husband's death-bed. Oh, poor Betty! On his heart's knees he begs her pardon.