I sprang from my rest, and threw off from me the shawls I had been wrapped in; then he rose and offered me his chair. I did not take it--we stood looking at each other--then he took my hand and held it, and looked at me wistfully. I said a cold "Good-morning," and turned my head away. When I did that, he dropped my hand, and withdrew me a little--and then he seemed to make an effort to command himself, and spoke to me in a voice which I scarcely recognised--so clear it was, and calm. Ah! he could be something else than an ardent or a penitent lover; the voice of the man was new to me. I looked up at him instantly, with a respect which I could not help; but we had entered upon another day. These days of my life crowded on each other, and to this chill, real dawn, and not to the wild, passionate night which preceded it, belonged what he said. THE THIRD DAY. The grey morning looked in chill and damp from the windows, the bough of jessamine fluttered upon the glass, the rain pattered on the leaves. It was the hour of night and day which is coldest, keenest, most ungenial, and we stood together, but apart--as pale, as chill, as heavy as the morning--quieted, yet still trembling with the agitation of the night. "There is a messenger below from Cambridge. I sent on word of our arrival last night," he said; "your father is not well, and wishes to see you. I have ordered the carriage to be ready, and have been watching here till you awoke. It is very early, but I know you will not care for the discomfort--your father has expressed a strong desire to see you immediately, and he is very weak, they say." "Do you mean he is dying?" I asked firmly, though I could not raise my voice above a whisper. "I mean he is very ill. Yes, Hester! it does not become me to deceive you any more."