He felt himself drawn after them, he could not tell how, and stole quite quietly out of the carriage as soon as they had passed. They were going further on to another train--a special one--which was going back to Markham Royal. Gus followed slowly among the other bystanders, walking as near the principal persons as he could, following as at a funeral. Was it his doing? Was it his fault? He heard the murmurs of the people with a strange sense of guiltiness. “He’s aged ten years,” he heard one say to another, “since the other day.” “Ah, sons has a deal to answer for,” said another. This speech went buzzing through his mind like a winged and stinging insect. It hurt him, though nobody could have thought of him in saying it. He saw the sick man put carefully into the carriage, watching every movement, and feeling as if he himself were hurt by the little stumble of his foot as he went in--the jar of unexpected motion in the train. Lady Markham passed him slowly, as he stood looking with a woful face, deadly serious and awe-stricken, after the sufferer, and gave him a grateful glance, seeing what she thought the sympathy in his eyes. But it was not sympathy; it was a far stronger, more personal feeling. He stood gazing while everything was arranged for Sir William’s comfort, and started to hear his voice coming out of the midst of the anxious group. It was not much he said--nothing, indeed, but a “That will do--that will do!” half querulous, half grateful. But the sound gave the looker-on a shock; it sounded to him reproachful, almost terrible. He kept standing there, staring, seeing nothing except the man whom he had never seen before--whom, for all he knew--was it possible?--his letter had killed. Then suddenly the sound of other voices came to his ears--a whispering conversation. The two girls were behind him, not conscious of his presence. “Very ill,” one was saying. “Oh, Dolly, yesterday we thought he would have died. But he is so much better now. The doctor was quite perplexed; he said he never saw anything so momentary; he could not call it a fit--it lasted so short a time. He thinks in a day or two he will be quite well again.” “Alice!” said the other’s whispering voice, “don’t tell me if it vexes you; but I will never--never say a word. Oh, tell me! I can’t think of anything else--was it Paul?” “Paul!” with a tone of indignation. Then the voice softened. “Dolly, dear, I know why you ask. Paul has been--very--wilful: he has given us a great deal of grief. I don’t know how to tell you. But it was not Paul. Oh, there have been so many things! and he had letters--that worried him.” “Was that all?” She was standing close by the man into whose heart these words sank like a stone. “Everybody,” said Dolly, “is worried by letters; and now that he is safely here, you and your mamma will be able to take care of him, and keep everything that is bad for him out of his way.”