If anything were likely to fan into flame the fever, already raging in the veins of the unhappy Eustace it would be, as is easily to be supposed, this most repugnant infliction he was powerless to resist. In vain he protested, as far as his feeble strength would allow him, against the repugnant imposition of such odious services upon him, entreating the assistance of his brother in his release, repulsing the detested woman's attentions, and refusing to touch the food or medicines offered by her hand. His brother soothed or reasoned. The doctor told him he must not be agitated--felt his pulse, shook his head. Still that Marryott's hateful face, with its serpent smile, hung over him, uttering smooth words in oily accents in his shrinking ear, or creeping noiselessly about the room, whilst his fascinated eye fain would follow loathingly. No wonder, then, maddened and excited, that the fever raged more intensely, till, mounting higher and higher, his very brain seemed on fire; every image, loved or hated, became distorted and indistinct to his mind; till, finally, he lay prostrate, raving, struggling, delirious, beneath the power of that fearful malady, which had attacked him once before--a brain fever! * * * * * It was a cold, stormy November night. The father and son sat together close beside the library fire, after dinner; the latter musing absently over a newspaper he held before him, the former deep in the examination of an old leather pocket-book, where accounts and memorandums concerning money matters were noted down. The door opened; both looked sharply round: it was Marryott. She put her head in at the door, and begged Mr. Eugene to come and speak to her. Eugene turned pale, started up, and hastened to obey the summons. Mr. Trevor looked after him, put his note-book carefully into his pocket, picked up, and appeared to peruse the newspaper his son had thrown down; but ever and anon, at every sound that met his ear, his small dark eye might be seen peering eagerly towards the door. "Well, well," turning eagerly towards Eugene, as he entered, looking still paler than when he left the room, but taking his seat as before, without speaking a word; "well, well, what's the matter? Where have you been?" "With Marryott, talking to her. Panton has just come." "Well, well--how is he?--worse?" "Why, yes--I cannot say there is much improvement; but here's Marryott," as the door again opened; "she can tell you more about him and Panton's opinion." Marryott entered, and stationed herself beside Mr. Trevor's chair, keeping her eyes fixed upon Eugene, as he sat leaning his elbows on his knees, and looking nervously down upon the ground. "Well, well, Marryott, is he very bad? What does Panton think of him now?" "He thinks very badly of him, indeed, Mr. Trevor," was her answer, in a solemn, mysterious voice. "Really, really; Does he think that he will die?" The woman cleared her throat.