The effect of the perusal of that letter on Geoffrey Ludlow none knew but himself. The doctors found him "not quite so well" for the succeeding day or two, and thought that his "tone" was scarcely so good as they had been led to anticipate; certain it was that he made no effort to rouse himself, and that, save occasionally, when spoken to by Til, he remained silent and preoccupied. On the third day he asked Til to write to Bowker, and beg him to come to him at once. Within twenty-four hours that worthy presented himself at Elm Lodge. After a few words with Til downstairs, Mr. Bowker was shown up to Geoffrey's room, the door of which Til opened, and, when Mr. Bowker had entered, shut it behind him. The noise of the closing door roused Geoffrey, and he turned in his bed, and, looking up, revealed such a worn and haggard face, that old Bowker stopped involuntarily, and drew a long breath, as he gazed on the miserable appearance of his friend. There must have been something comical in the rueful expression of Bowker's face, for old Geoff smiled feebly, as he said, "Come in, William; come in, old friend! Ive had a hard bout of it, old fellow, since you saw me; but there's no danger now--no infection, I mean, or any thing of that kind." Geoff spoke haphazard; but what he had said was the best thing to restore Mr. Bowker to himself. "Your William's fever-proof;" he growled out in reply, "and don't fear any nonsense of that kind; and if he did, it's not that would keep him away from a friend's bedside. I should have been here--that is, if you'd have let me; and, oddly enough, though I'm such a rough old brute in general, I'm handy and quiet in times of sickness,--at least so Ive been told;" and here Bowker stifled a great sigh. "But the first I heard of your illness was from your sister's letter, which I only got this morning." "Give me your hand, William; I know that fast enough. But I didn't need any additional nursing. Til and the old lady--God bless them!--have pulled me through splendidly, and--But I'm beyond nursing now, William; what I want is--" and Geoff's voice failed him, and he stopped. Old Bowker eyed him with tear-blurred vision for a moment, and then said, "What you want is--" "Don't mind me just now, William; I'm horribly weak, and girlish, and trembling, but I shall get to it in time. What I want is, some man, some friend, to whom I can talk openly and unreservedly,--whose advice and aid I can seek, in such wretchedness as, I trust, but few have experienced."