Helen clasped her hands together a moment, holding them out towards Martin with a dumb, beseeching gesture, as if imploring him. “And I am so strong,” she said. “Why can’t I give him some of my strength! It is cruel.” “Ah, if one only could do that,” said Nurse Baker. “But he is not suffering; he is quite unconscious.” “May my father come in to see him a moment?” asked the girl. “No; much better not. He does not know what he is saying, but he keeps on saying what you have heard. Now, will you send somebody for the doctor? There are certain things I don’t like about his looks. And then come back, dear, if you like. He never says a word his sister should not hear.” Helen advanced to the side of the bed a moment, and just touched Martin’s hand, which lay outside the bedclothes. She could not speak, but just nodded to the nurse and went away. She sent word to the stables that the cart was to go at once to fetch Dr. Thaxter, and then went to her father’s study, where he was waiting for her. He was kneeling by his table, as he had knelt for the last half-hour, but rose when she entered, and they stood together, hands clasped, a moment. “No, dear father, he is no better,” she said. “He--he is very ill, indeed. And Nurse Baker thinks you had better not go in.” Mr. Challoner looked at her with that dreadful dry-eyed despair that she had seen on his face so often during this last week. “Does he still talk about me?” he asked. Helen laid her hands on his shoulders. “Yes, father,” she said; “but he does not know what he is saying. Indeed, he does not. He talks all sorts of nonsense. He has no idea what he says.” “Ah, Helen, that is just it,” he moaned. “The poor lad speaks instinctively; he says what has become a habit of thought. Oh, my God, my God!” Helen knew her impotence to help him. “I have sent for Dr. Thaxter,” she said. “Nurse Baker wanted him to come at once. And, father, there is another thing, which I have only just thought of. If Dr. Thaxter thinks--if he thinks _that_, we ought to send for a Roman priest.” Mr. Challoner’s face changed suddenly. “No,” he said, in a harsh whisper; “no Roman priest shall enter the house.” “Ah, but he must, he must,” said Helen. “Think a moment. If Martin was conscious, you know he would wish it, and you would send for one.” Mr. Challoner did not reply for a moment; then he lifted his hands with a helpless gesture. “And it is Easter morning,” he said. Somehow that cut at the girl’s heart more than anything. “Yes, dear father,” she said at length; “and is not that--whatever happens--enough for us all? Whoever we are, Frank, Martin, you, I, that is where we meet.”