Phrase after phrase had he rejected, because nothing seemed to him to express half the love and tenderness in which so terrible an announcement should be clothed. Words were so hard, so cold! They were so weak to express what he wanted--so utterly inadequate to contain all the pity, all the yearning sympathy with which his heart was overflowing! And now without any preparation, without any softening, the cruel blow had fallen! For one moment the father's heart failed him, and he felt he _could_ not face the boy, _could_ not meet his questioning gaze, _could_ not with his own lips confirm the fatal truth. But there was no time for reflection. Humphrey's feeble voice calling him to come quickly, caught his ear, and as in a dream he advanced, and stood by the bedside. "Father!" exclaimed the child (and how shall we express the tones of his voice, or convey an idea of the pitiful entreaty and nameless horror with which they rang?) "it isn't true--is it? Oh, say it isn't true!" All the words of consolation and soothing died upon the father's lips, and his tongue seemed tied. "She's always saying unkind things," sobbed the child, clinging to him; "she oughtn't to--_ought_ she? You don't answer me, father! Father, why don't you tell me? Why don't you say quick, it's not true?" And as his fear grew, his voice faltered, and his grasp on his father tightened. "Answer me--father--why--don't you--speak?" "My poor child, my poor little fellow!" One more struggle for the truth, in spite of the failing voice, and the sense of deadly sickness. "Lift up your face, father. Let--me--see--your--face!" What was there in the face that struck terror to his heart, and brought conviction thumping up in great throbs, even before the faltering words came. "Supposing it should be true--what then!" Ah! what then? His dizzy brain refused to attach any meaning to the words, or to help him to understand how much was contained in them. The loud beating of his heart echoed them, his parched lips strove to repeat them, and wildly he fought with his failing senses, straining every nerve to find an answer to the question. In vain! Every pulse in his throbbing head seemed to take up the words and beat them into his brain; the air was live with voices around him, and voices and pulses alike cried, "What then?--what then?" But the question went unanswered, for Humphrey fainted away. * * * * * Sir Everard hastily summoned the doctors, and they did all they could to restore him. In a little while he showed signs of coming to himself, and to prevent his thoughts returning to the subject which had agitated him, they requested Sir Everard to remain out of sight, and stationed themselves close to the bedside, so that theirs should be the first figures that should attract his attention.