His old feeling for Madeline had come to life. That wasted form, those tragic eyes had touched him--cut him to the heart. Yes; she looked as if she was about to follow the child. If she had been to blame, he himself was not guiltless. He had upbraided her too bitterly; he had left her to bear her grief alone; he had not made sufficient allowance for her youth, her natural craving for the pleasures and delights of girls of her age. The domestic yoke had been laid upon her childish shoulders, and what a cruel weight it had proved! Why should he have been astonished that she should be glad to slip her neck from under it for a year or two! She had no girlhood. She was endowed with a gay, happy, sun-loving temperament. He should not have left the telling of their secret in her hands; he should have spoken to Mr. West himself. He would do so now, within the next few days. If Madeline was going to die, she should leave the world as _Mrs. Wynne_! But, whether she was to live or die, she should have his incessant care. Day by day Madeline appeared on deck, and day by day gained some steady but scarcely perceptible improvement. Mr. Wynne took much of her father’s attendance off his hands, and left him free to smoke and gossip and play whist. He arranged her pillows and rugs in her chair; saw that it was sheltered; talked to her when she was inclined to talk; told her everything that was likely to amuse her; brought up, or caused to appear at frequent intervals, soup, grapes, champagne, tea, arrowroot, and used all his persuasions to induce her to partake of them. He had an unlimited supply of magazines, books, and picture-papers, which he read to her when she was disposed to listen; and, when she had looked them over, occasionally she fell asleep; and he sat beside her, contemplating her white and death-like appearance with a countenance to match. However, every sleep, every smile, was an inch on the road to recovery. Mr. West was extremely obliged to him for his kind attentions to his daughter. He himself was very fond of Madeline, and, naturally most anxious about his only child. But he confessed that he did not understand sick people, and was no hand at nursing. He felt doubly grateful to Wynne for his assiduity, and the politeness and interest with which he listened to his own discourse. He talked to Wynne confidentially--chiefly about finance. He had lost some money lately--a good deal more than he liked. But he never put his eggs into one basket, and had a fair amount in sound English securities. Wynne was a steady--well--friend. Mr. West had recently experienced (and resented) a certain palpable change in the social temperature. He was no longer flattered, deferred to--or even _listened_ to--as formerly. He was credited with the loss of most of his fortune--every one knew he had shares in the “Tom and Jerry” Bank--and his daughter with the loss of her beauty.