Alison sat close to his bedside, for he who lay there seemed--save some one far away, she thought--all that she had to cling to; she was in a circle of light shed by a lamp upon a pedestal, and an unread Tauchnitz volume lay on her lap forgotten--'Tales of Flemish Life,' by Hendrik Conscience, the Walter Scott of Flanders. She looked pale, worn, and wan. Sorrow and trouble were beginning to tell upon her now; wakeful nights, restless days, and incessant anxious thoughts were all robbing her of the bloom of perfect youth; the sweetness of lip, the softness of brow, the light of eye, were all passing away, and even her voice was changing, and becoming starved and thin, if we may use the expression. While in the yacht she had escaped her father's peevishness to some extent, and the misery of her home life in another, with its struggle for appearances and bare existence, its saving and scraping, and the duns of ever urgent creditors; but then she had undergone the grief of a rough separation from Bevil, with the annoyance the presence of Lord Cadbury gave her. 'If I can only get through all this, nurse papa well, and get back to Bevil, or to where I can hear of him, how happy--how thankful I shall be!' Though absent in body, she was ever present in spirit with Bevil; but how little could she conceive that he was at that very time so near her. One of those horrible bats peculiar to Antwerp, and which begin to flit about as evening falls, came bang against the panes of the lighted window and woke Sir Ranald. 'Still sitting there, bird Ailie,' said he, 'and not reading; of what are you thinking?' 'Of home.' 'What home--Chilcote or Essilmont?--of course you prefer the former now?' 'Well, I do not care particularly for Chilcote; in my mind it is associated with gloom and struggles; I had nothing on earth to leave there but the fowls, the birds I spread crumbs for, the apple-trees and the flowers, and some little trifles, sketches, books, and nick-nacks that had become familiarly dear to me.' But she did refer to the first and piercing thought of her life--Bevil Goring. 'Poor Alison!' said her father, as she kissed his brow and arranged his pillows, 'your little hands have quite enough to do for me.' 'They are diminutive members, perhaps, papa, but useful, anyway,' she replied, with a faint smile. 'Here in Antwerp there are many things you should see, poor child--the churches, galleries, museums, the Steyne. Cadbury suggests I should get a nursing sister. This is dull work for you, darling, and you must go out.' 'I could not bear to see another nursing you. It is not the custom here for young girls to go out alone, and I have no companion, no escort--not even poor little Daisy Prune now.' 'Why, there is Cadbury.'