And in this the Judge was right, for the blow had well-nigh crushed out Lawrence’s very life, and before the sun went down they carried him to what was to have been the bridal chamber, a broken-hearted, delirious man, talking continually of Mildred, who he always said was dead, but never that she was his niece. For many days the fever raged with fearful violence, and Mr. Thornton, who was summoned in haste from Boston, wept bitterly as he gazed upon the flushed face and wild eyes of his son, and felt that he would die. From the very first Lawrence refused to let either Geraldine or Lilian come into the room, while Oliver, on the contrary, was kept constantly at his side, and made to sing continually of Mildred with the starry eyes and nut-brown hair. “Sing, Clubs, sing,” he would say, tossing from side to side; “sing of the maid with the nut-brown hair.” And all through the silent watches of the night could that feeble voice be heard, sweet as an ancient harp and plaintive as a broken lute, for it welled up from the depths of an aching heart, and he who sang that song knew that each note was wearing his life away. Thrice Judge Howell, touched with compassion by his pale, suffering face, offered to take his place, bidding Oliver lie down while he sang of Milly’s eyes and hair; but Lawrence detected the fraud in an instant. He knew the shaking, tremulous tones, raised sometimes to a screech and then dying away in a whisper, came from another than Oliver Hawkins, and his lip curled with supreme disdain as, raising himself upon his elbow, he said: “You can’t cheat me, old fellow, and you may as well send Clubs back again.” So poor Clubs went back, staying by him night and day, until human strength could endure no more; and he one morning fell forward upon the bed, deluging it with the blood which gushed from his mouth and nose. With an almost superhuman effort, Judge Howell took him in his arms,—gently, tenderly, for Mildred’s sake,—and carrying him down the Cold Spring path, laid him away in the little room beneath the gable-roof, where there was none to sing to him of Mildred, none to comfort him save Hepsy, whose homely attempts were worse than failures, and who did him more hurt than good by constantly accusing Lawrence Thornton of being the cause of his illness. Indeed, she seemed rather to enjoy it when she heard, as she did, how Lawrence moaned for “Clubs,” growing daily worse until at last the physician feared that he would die. This, however, she kept from Oliver, who lay all the day on his low bed, never seeing but one person from Beechwood, and that the Judge, who came at his request, and was in close consultation with him for more than an hour. The result of this interview was a determination on the part of Judge Howell and Mr. Thornton to sift the matter of Mildred’s parentage more thoroughly and see if there were not some mistake.