Mr. Cornthwaite, over whom there had passed some great change, followed him with only a curt assent. Bram supposed that even he had been touched to learn that the woman of whom he had come in search was so ill as to be past understanding that her persecution had already begun. He stood in front of the fire, with his hat in one hand and his umbrella in the other, with his back to Bram, in dead silence for some minutes. Then he turned abruptly, and asked in a stern, cold voice, without looking up from the floor, on which he was following the pattern of the carpet with the point of his umbrella-- “Did that scoundrel Biron get back home all right?” “He’s got home, sir, but he’s very ill. He’s caught cold, I think.” “He was not molested, attacked again, by the woman, the woman Tyzack, who threw the vitriol over him before?” “No, sir. She followed him, but he lost sight of her before he got here.” Mr. Cornthwaite nodded, and was again silent for some time. Bram was much puzzled. Instead of the fierce resentment, the savage anger which had possessed the bereaved father immediately after the loss of his son there now hung over him a gloomy sadness tempered by an uneasiness and irresolution, which were new attributes in the business-like, strong-natured man. The silence had lasted some minutes again, when he spoke as sharply as before. “I came to see the daughter, Claire Biron. But I’m told--the woman tells me--that she is ill, and can’t see any one. Is that true?” “Yes, sir. She is delirious.” Mr. Cornthwaite turned away impatiently, and again there was a pause. At last he said in the same sharp tone-- “You brought her back home, I suppose?” “Yes. At least I followed her, and when she grew too tired to walk alone I caught her up, and helped her along.” Mr. Cornthwaite looked at him curiously. The little room was ill-lighted, by two candles only and the red glow of the fire. He could see Bram’s face pretty well, but the young man could not see his. “Still infatuated, I see?” said Josiah in a hard, ironical voice. Bram made no answer. “You intend to marry her, I suppose?” went on Mr. Cornthwaite in a harder tone than ever. Bram stared. But he could see nothing of Mr. Cornthwaite’s features, only the black outline of his figure against the dim candle-light. “No, sir,” said he steadily. “I only hope to be able to save her life.” “And how do you propose to do that?” “Sir, you know best.” His voice shook, and he stopped. There was silence between them till they heard the footsteps of the doctor and Joan coming down the stairs. Mr. Cornthwaite opened the door. “Well, Doctor,” said he, “what of the patients?” There was more impatience than solicitude in his tone. “They’re both very ill,” answered the doctor. “They ought each to have a nurse, really.” “Very well. Can you engage them, Doctor? I’ll undertake to pay all the expenses of their illness.”