"How did you leave him?" asked Henderson eagerly, when Walter rejoined him in Mr Percival's room. "Sleeping soundly. I hope it will do him good. I did not know how much you cared for him, Flip." "That's because I always made him a butt," said Henderson, remorsefully; "but I didn't really think he minded it, or I wouldn't have done so. I hardly knew myself that I liked him so. It was a confounded shame of me to worry him as I was always doing. Conceited donkey that I was, I was always trying to make him seem stupid; yet all the while I could have stood by him cap in hand. O Walter, I hope he is not going to die!" "O no, I hope not; and don't be miserable at the thought of teasing him, Flip; it was all in fun, and he was never wounded by any word of yours. Remember how he used to tell you that he was all the time laughing at you, not you at him. Come a turn on the shore, and let's take Power or Ken with us." "Sociable grosbeaks, again," said Henderson, laughing in the midst of his sorrow. "Yes," said Walter; "never mind. There are but few birds of the sort after all." They found Eden with his feet up, and his hands round his knees, on the window-seat, perfectly at his ease, and chattering to Power like a young jackdaw. A thrill of pleasure passed through Walter's heart as a glance showed him how well his proposal had succeeded. Power evidently had had no reason to repent of his kindness, and Eden looked more like the bright and happy child which he had once been, than ever was the case since he had come to Saint Winifred's. He was now clean and neat in dress, and the shadows of fear and guilt which had begun to darken his young face were chased away. Power readily joined them in their stroll along the shore, and listened with affectionate sympathy to their account of Daubeny. "What is it that has made him ill?" he asked. "There's no doubt about that," answered Walter; "it's overwork which has brought on a tendency to brain fever." "I was afraid so, Walter," and then Power repeated half to himself the fine lines of Byron on Kirke White-- "So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the barb that quivered in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. He nursed the pinion that impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life blood of his bleeding breast." "What grand verses!" said Walter. "Poor, poor Daubeny!" "I've never had but one feeling about him myself," said Power, "and that was a feeling almost like reverence. I hope and trust that he'll be well enough for to-morrow week. I always looked forward to kneeling next to him when we were confirmed."