You all know the old rhyme about a certain gentleman's penitence when he was sick; though it may not be deemed the perfection of good manners to quote it here. It was a very apt illustration of the feelings of Mrs. Arkell. While her son lay sick unto death, she would have married him to Lucy Arkell; but no sooner was the danger of death removed, and he advancing towards convalescence, than the old pride--avarice--love of rule--call it what you will--resumed sway within her; and she had almost been ready to say again that a mouldy grave would be preferable for him, rather than desertion of Miss Fauntleroy. In fine, the old state of things was obtaining sway, both as to Mrs. Arkell's opinions and to the course of events. "When can I see him?" asked Miss Fauntleroy one day. Not the first time, this, that she had put the question, and it a little puzzled Mrs. Arkell to answer it. It was only natural and proper, considering the relation in which each stood to the other, that Miss Fauntleroy should see him; but Mrs. Arkell had positively not dared to hint at such a visit to her son. "Travice sits up now, does he not?" continued the young lady. "Yes, he has sat up a little in the afternoon these two days past. We call it sitting up, Barbara, but, in point of fact, he lies the whole time on the sofa. He is not strong enough to sit up." "Then I'm sure I may see him. It might not have been proper, I suppose, to pay him a visit in bed," she added, laughing loudly; "but there can't be any impropriety now. I want to see him, Mrs. Arkell; I want it very particularly." "Of course, Barbara; I can understand that you do. I should, in your place. The only consideration is, whether it may not agitate him too much." "Not it," said Barbara. "I wish you'd go and ask him when I may come. I suppose he is up now?" Mrs. Arkell had no ready plea for refusal, and she went upstairs there and then. Travice was lying on the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of getting to it. "My dear, I think you look better," Mrs. Arkell began, not altogether relishing her task; and she gently pushed the bits of brown hair, now beginning to grow again, from the damp, white forehead. "Do you feel so?" He drew her fingers for a moment into his, and held them there. He was always ready to respond to his mother's little tokens of affection. She had opposed him in the matter of Lucy Arkell, but he was ever generous, ever just, and he blamed circumstances more than he blamed her. "I feel a great deal better than I did a week ago. I shall get on now." Mrs. Arkell paused. "Some one wants to see you, Travice." The hectic came into his white face as she spoke--a wild rush of crimson. Was it possible that he thought she spoke of Lucy? The idea occurred, to Mrs. Arkell. "My dear, it is Barbara. She has asked to see you a great many times. She is downstairs now."