The doctor's heart misgave him terribly at this time. Would his dear dead brother's son die--slip, as it were, away from him, his father's brother, who had taken the friendless lad to his heart, in the place of the younger brother he had well-nigh idolised? Only in his quiet, reserved, absent-minded way he had never thought how much he cared for him. He sent for his small niece--the child who had stolen into all their hearts with her gentle, unobtrusive love, and would stand aside from the bed when she came with a heavy sigh, while she spoke the boy's name. She had more power to soothe him than he; she laid her small cool hand on Oscar's feverish one, holding it till he seemed to understand who it was near him. Then he would sink into long, unrefreshing, heavy slumber, to awake to all the wild frenzy again. Thus, to and fro went the little maiden from the farm to the Owl's Nest and Madame Giche, who chatted to and tried to amuse her when there, and to beguile her from her childish anxiety. "Yes, dear, my husband descended from a French family," she said one evening, finding her in the picture-gallery, where she so loved to be, as usual passing from picture to picture, and always stopping at that of Madame Giche's son, to think over the sad tale, and to wonder where that little child was whom Madame Giche had never found. "Yes, dear, he was of French family. Some said my son was like him, but I think he was more like me;" and the aged lady regarded his portrait fondly, standing behind her little guest. "I think he's very much like you, dear Madame Giche; and, do you know, he always reminds me of mamma; 'tis the eyes, I think--they look at me so!" There came a quiver into the child's voice. "Were mamma's eyes dark?" questioned Madame Giche. "Oh, no! Mamma's eyes are like mine. People say I am very like mamma." "And papa--what is he like?" "He is dark, and--and that is all." "An artist, is he not?" "Yes; he was painting the portrait of the gentleman with whom he's gone abroad when--when he was taken ill"--the child's sweet grey eyes filled with tears. "He broke a blood-vessel, and--and 'twas said he would die if he spent the winter in England." "And so the gentleman took him abroad?" "Yes; it was very kind of him. A Mr. Mortimer--his father was rich once, only he lost his estate, so his son was poor, only he married a rich lady; and they are so happy, and Mrs. Mortimer is so beautiful," went on the child. "Mortimer! Mortimer!"--the ancient lady shook her head. "No, I don't know the name," she sighed, looking at her son's picture again. "I wonder where the little boy is, Madame Giche?" said Inna, out of the silence that followed, noting the aged mother's fond gaze. "Little boy, dear?" was the dreamy response. "Yes, Madame Giche, your dear little grandson." "My dear, he's not a little boy--he's thirty-three years of age--that is, if he's living."