In a moment Bram experienced a revulsion of feeling so strong that he felt he could scarcely stand. Christian’s follies, faults, vices, all were forgotten; there lay, dangerously ill, the lovable companion, the staunch friend. In that moment Bram, staring at the man he knew so well, who knew him not, felt that he would have laid down his own life to save that of Christian. Suddenly he felt a hand laid gently on his arm. Mr. Cornthwaite, who had been watching him narrowly, saw the effect the sight had had upon the young man, and promptly drew him back, and shut the door behind them. “Typhoid,” said he, in answer to an imploring look from Bram. “He must have been sickening for it when he went away. I brought him back very ill, and the fever declared itself yesterday.” Bram did not ask anything for some minutes. He knew that Christian’s life was in danger. “His wife? She has forgiven him? She is with him?” asked Bram. “Thank goodness no,” replied Mr. Cornthwaite energetically. “I begin to hate the little canting fool. She offered to nurse him, I will say that; but we thought it better to refuse, and she was content.” “And--Claire?” said Bram. Mr Cornthwaite grew impatient directly. “I know nothing about her,” said he coldly. Bram straightened himself, as if at a challenge. “You did not see her in London?” he asked. “No.” “Nor trouble yourself about her?” “No. And I sincerely hope, Elshaw, you are going to give up all thoughts of doing so either.” Bram smiled grimly. “Not while I have a hand or a foot left, Mr. Cornthwaite.” “At any rate, you will not think of marrying her?” There was a silence. Then Bram said, in a very low voice, very sadly-- “No.” He did not know whether he was not cruel, hard, in this decision. But he could not help himself. The feeling he had for Claire, for his first love, for his ideal, could never die; but it had changed sadly; greatly changed. It was love still, but with a difference. Mr Cornthwaite, however, was scarcely satisfied. “You will not think of leaving us, at least yet?” he said presently. Then, as he saw a look he did not like in Bram’s face he hastened to add--“You are bound to wait until my son is better--or worse; until I am free to go to the office. I cannot be making changes now.” “Very well, Mr. Cornthwaite. But I must have a holiday, perhaps a two or three days’ holiday, to start from to-morrow morning.” “All right. Good-night.” They were in the hall, and Bram, who had refused to re-enter the study, had his fingers upon the outer door. “Good-night,” said he.