Henry looked at him wistfully. "On your honour?" "Henry! was there need to ask it? On my honour, if you will." "No, no; there was no need: you are always truthful. Bear with me, William! bear with my infirmities." "My sister Anna Lynn might be, and welcome. My wife never." Henry did not answer. His face was growing damp with physical pain. "You have one of your fits of suffering coming on!" breathed William. "Shall I get you anything?" "Hush! only sit there, to hide me from them: and be still." William did as he was requested, sitting so as to screen him from Mrs. Ashley and the rest. He held his hands, and the paroxysm, sharp while it lasted, passed away. Henry's very lips had grown white with pain. "You see what a poor wretch I am!" "I see that you suffer," was William's compassionate answer. "From henceforth there is a fresh bond of union between us, for you possess my secret. It is what no one else in the world does. William, _that's_ my object in life." William did not reply. Perplexity was crowding on his mind, shading his countenance. "Well!" cried Henry, beginning to recover his equanimity, and with it his sharp retorts. "Why are you looking so blue?" "Will it be smooth sailing for you, Henry, with Mr. Ashley?" "Yes, I think it will," was the hasty rejoinder: its very haste, its fractious tone, proving that Henry was by no means so sure of it as he would imply. "I am not as others are: therefore he will let minor considerations yield to my happiness." William looked uncommonly grave. "Mr. Ashley is not all," he said, arousing from a reverie. "There may be difficulties elsewhere. She must not marry out of their own society. Samuel Lynn is one of its strictest members." "Rubbish! Samuel Lynn is my father's servant, and I am my father's son. If Samuel should take a strait-laced fit, and hold out, why, I'll turn broadbrim." "Samuel Lynn is my father's servant!" In that very fact, William saw cause to fear that it might not be such plain sailing with Mr. Ashley as Henry wished to anticipate. He could not help looking the doubts he felt. Henry observed it. "What's the matter now?" he peevishly asked. "I do think you were born to be the plague of my life! My belief is, you want her for yourself." "I am only anxious for you, Henry. I wish you could have assured yourself that it would go well, before--before allowing your feelings to be irrevocably bound up in it. A blow, for you, might be hard to bear." "How could I help my feelings?" retorted Henry. "I did not fix them purposely on Anna Lynn. Before I knew anything about it, they had fixed themselves. Almost before I knew that I cared for her, she was more to me than the sun in the heavens. There has been no help for it at all, I tell you. So don't preach." "Have you spoken to her?" Henry shook his head. "The time has not come for it. I must make it right with the master before I can stir a step: and I fear it is not quite ripe for that. Mind _you_ don't talk."