“I suspect you are right,” said Upton, bending over his teacup; “and _our_ part, in consequence, is one of considerable delicacy; for until Glencore alludes to what has passed, _we_ of course, can take no notice of it. The boy is ill; he is in a fever: we know nothing more.” “I'll leave you to deal with the father; the son shall be my care. I have told Traynor to be ready to start with me after breakfast, and have ordered two stout ponies for the journey. I conclude there will be no objection in detaining the doctor for the night: what think you, Upton?” “Do _you_ consult the doctor on that head; meanwhile, I 'll pay a visit to Glencore. I 'll meet you in the library.” And so saying, Upton rose, and gracefully draping the folds of his dressing-gown, and arranging the waving lock of hair which had escaped beneath his cap, he slowly set out towards the sick man's chamber. Of all the springs of human action, there was not one in which Sir Horace Upton sympathized so little as passion. That any man could adopt a line of conduct from which no other profit could result than what might minister to a feeling of hatred, jealousy, or revenge, seemed to him utterly contemptible. It was not, indeed, the morality of such a course that he called in question, although he would not have contested that point. It was its meanness, its folly, its insufficiency. His experience of great affairs had imbued him with all the importance that was due to temper and moderation. He scarcely remembered an instant where a false move had damaged a negotiation that it could not be traced to some passing trait of impatience, or some lurking spirit of animosity biding the hour of its gratification. He had long learned to perceive how much more temperament has to do, in the management of great events, than talent or capacity, and his opinion of men was chiefly founded on this quality of their nature. It was, then, with an almost pitying estimate of Glenoore that he now entered the room where the sick man lay. Anxious to be alone with him, Glenoore had dismissed all the attendants from his room, and sat, propped up by pillows, eagerly awaiting his approach. Upton moved through the dimly lighted room like one familiar to the atmosphere of illness, and took his seat beside the bed with that noiseless quiet which in _him_ was a kind of instinct. It was several minutes before Glencore spoke, and then, in a low, faint voice, he said, “Are we alone, Upton?” “Yes,” said the other, gently pressing the wasted fingers which lay on the counterpane before him. “You forgive me, Upton,” said he,--and the words trembled as he uttered them,--“You forgive me, Upton, though I cannot forgive myself.” “My dear friend, a passing moment of impatience is not to breach the friendship of a lifetime. Your calmer judgment would, I know, not be unjust to me.” “But how am I to repair the wrong I have done you?” “By never alluding to it,--never thinking of it again, Glenoore.”