“You should have slept here in your own old room over mine, and have taken your breakfast with the family. Will, do you know it was very eccentric in you to do otherwise? And then, the idea of your saying that you slept in my old room at the cabin! Will, what put such a thing as that in your head, my dear?” He did not answer promptly. He was thinking what he could say, and resolving to be very cautious in future talks with his mother. She looked at him very keenly, and then exclaimed: “Will, I see how it is. You have overworked your poor brain. Your mind is unhinged, Will. You must not go back to the university again until after the summer vacation. You can put off getting your degree for a year or two years. You are young enough to wait, and I will not have you overworking your brain to a dangerous extent. I will speak to your father about it.” “My—father!” muttered poor Will, thinking of the gallant soldier who fell fighting side by side with heroic Stonewall Jackson. “Yes. Have you seen your father this morning?” “No,” said Will. “Then he must be in the study, with the overseer and the farm books, making out the first quarter of the year; for it is near the first of April, you know.” “Yes,” said Harcourt helplessly. “And now, Will, you will have a gay time. The house is full of company. Two of the loveliest girls you ever saw, and two of the pleasantest young men, and a very agreeable married couple. We are, every one of us, charmed with them. And I am very glad you have come to enjoy their company and help to entertain them. I am well, but somehow or other I do not seem to have any strength in my back or limbs, and when I attempt to stand up I feel so uncertain on my feet.” Poor Will understood this symptom but too well. “And so you see,” she continued, “I cannot do my part toward entertaining our visitors as I could wish. I have to leave almost everything to the girls and boys. But they are all very happy together, I assure you. Have you seen your brothers and sisters?” “No, mother,” sadly replied poor Will. “Well, then, I suppose the boys are in the fields somewhere, and, of course, the girls are with our visitors,” said the old lady, and she spoke so calmly and so naturally that no one unacquainted with the circumstances could possibly have suspected her perfect sanity. “It seems to me you have grown a great deal since you went to college, Will,” she said, after a pause. Some furtive ray of memory had vaguely suggested that “Will” was a mere boy at the time which her illusions had reproduced, and in which she now lived. Harcourt knew not what to say better than this: “You think so, mother?” “Why, I know so. You are quite a man now. You will be falling in love with some of these pretty girl visitors of mine presently. I wonder where those sisters of yours can be.” Where they can be? Long ago in the better world, he hoped; but their bodies lay in the churchyard of All Souls’ Parish, at Logwood.