"You ought to have remembered that she is an incorrigible flirt, that is what you ought to have remembered," interrupted Mr. St. John. "Well, well," sighed Henry, "I cannot speak of these things to you: less to you than to any one." "Is that an enigma? I should think you could best speak of them to me, because I have guessed your secret, and the ice is broken." Again Henry Arkell sighed. "Speaking of them at all will do no good; and I would now rather think of the future than of the past. My future lies there," he added, pointing to the blue sky, which, as seen from his window, formed a canopy over the cathedral tower. "She has, in all probability, many years before her here: Mr. St. John, if she and you spend those years together, will you sometimes talk of me? I should not like to be quite forgotten by you--or by her." "Spend them together!" he echoed. "Another enigma. What should bring me spending my years with Georgina Beauclerc?" Henry withdrew his hands from his eyes, and turned them on Mr. St. John. "Do you think she will never be your wife?" "She! Georgina Beauclerc! No, thank you." Henry Arkell's face wore an expression that Mr. St. John understood not. "It was for your sake she treated me so ill. She loves you, Mr. St. John. And I think you know it." "She is a little simpleton. I would not marry Georgie Beauclerc if there were not another English girl extant. And as to loving her----Harry, I only wish, if we are to lose you, that I loved you but one tenth part as little." "Sorrow in store for her! sorrow in store for her!" he murmured, as he turned his face to the pillow. "I must send her a message before I die: you will deliver it for me?" "I won't have you talk about dying," retorted Mr. St. John. "You may get well yet, I tell you." Henry opened his eyes again to reply, and the calm peace had returned to them. "It maybe _very_ soon; and it is better to talk of death than to shrink from it." And Mr. St. John grumbled an ungracious acquiescence. "And there is another thing I wish you would do for me: get Lewis junior here to-day. If I send to him, I know he will not come; but I must see him. Tell him, please, that it is only to shake hands and make friends; that I will not say a word to grieve him. He will understand." "It's more than I do," said Mr. St. John. "He shall come." "I should like to see Aultane--but I don't think my head will stand it all. Tell him from me, not to be harsh with the choristers now he is senior----" "He is not senior yet," interposed Mr. St. John in a husky tone. "It will not be long first. Give him my love, and tell him, when I sent it, I meant it fully; and that I have no angry feeling towards him." "Your love?" "Yes. It is not an ordinary message from one college boy to another," panted the lad, "but I am dying." After Mr. St. John left the house, he encountered the dean. "Dr. Beauclerc, Henry Arkell is dying." The dean stared at Mr. St. John. "Dying! Henry Arkell!"