But with all his apparent gruffness and contempt for the kindness Earle was bestowing upon the unfortunate criminal, the young marquis could see that he was always very gentle with him, and was satisfied that he was bestowing the very best treatment that his knowledge and skill could suggest. When at last the fever left him he lay weak as a baby, and only able to be lifted gently in the arms of strong men when he wished to change his position. He did not look nearly so repulsive to Earle as he lay there so pale, and thin, and helpless, and a great pity crept into his heart for this brother-man whose life had been so steeped in sin and infamy. He had scarcely left him during those six long weeks when he lay in such danger, catching what rest he could while his patient slept, and lying upon a couch near his bed; and Earle himself looked almost as if he had had a fit of sickness, he was so worn and weary with his watching. It was six weeks longer before Tom Drake could be dressed and move about his room, supported by a servant on one side and a crutch on the other. He had grown more quiet and gentle in his manner during these weeks of convalescence. After regaining consciousness when his fever turned, his speech became more chaste, no oath left his lips to offend Earle’s ears, while now and then some expression of gratitude, rough though it was, would escape him for the attention and kindness he was receiving. He became very thoughtful, even sad at times, and then Earle would bring some interesting book and read to him; but though he listened attentively, and appeared grateful for the attention, yet he could see that he did not really enjoy it, and often grew nervous at the monotonous sound of his voice. One day he brought in a beautiful chess-table, and, after arranging the curiously carved men upon it, asked him if he would like to learn the game. He was astonished to see his face light up with delight, as he exclaimed: “Aha! them are real beauties, and now I can stand it.” He already knew the game—was even a skilful player and from that time until he was able to ride out, Earle was never at a loss to know how to amuse him. But as he grew stronger, Earle could see that some heavy burden oppressed him, and when not riding or playing chess, he would sit in moody silence, his hands folded, his head bent, and a look of deep trouble on his face, and frequent sighs escaped him. One day Earle had been reading the newspaper to him—the only thing of the literary kind in which he manifested any interest. A heavy sigh interrupted him, and looking up, he found his companion’s eyes fixed sadly on his face, while apparently he had not heard a word that he had been reading. “Well, Tom, are you feeling badly to-day?” Earle asked, laying down his paper. “N-o,” he returned, hesitatingly, and with some embarrassment. Then, with an air of recklessness that Earle had not noticed before during all his sickness, he asked: