“Ay,” muttered he, gloomily, “it was but too true; we did desert her, and that was not our bargain, Dolly. It was all the poor fellow asked at our hands,--his last, his only condition. What's that letter you have there?” cried he, impatiently, as Lady Dorothea, in the agitation of the moment, continued to crumple Repton's letter between her fingers. “A letter I have been reading,” said she, sternly. “From whom--from whom?” asked he, still more eagerly. “A letter from Mr. Repton. You shall read it when you are better. You are too weak for all this exertion, God-frey; you must submit--” “Submit!” broke he in; “the very word he said. You submit yourself to anything, if it only purchase your selfish ease. No, Dolly, no, I am wrong. It was I that said so. I owned to him how unworthily I had acted. Give me that letter, madam. Let me see it,” said he, imperiously. “When you are more tranquil, Godfrey,--in a fitting state.” “I tell you, madam,” cried he, fiercely, “this, is no time for trifling or deception. Repton knows all our affairs. If he has written now, it is because matters are imminent. My head is clear now. I can think--I can speak. It is full time Harry should hear the truth. Let him come here.” “Take a little rest, Godfrey, be it only half an hour, and you shall have everything as you wish it.” “Half an hour! you speak of half an hour to one whose years are minutes now!” said he, in a broken voice. “This poor brain, Dora, is already wandering. The strange things I have seen so lately--that poor fellow come back after so many years--so changed, so sadly changed--but I knew him through all the mist and vapor of this feverish state; I saw him clearly, my own dear Barry!” The word, as it were the last barrier to his emotion, brought forth a gush of tears; and burying his face within the bedclothes, he sobbed himself to sleep. As he slept, however, he continued to mutter about home and long passed years,--of boyish sports with his brother; childish joys and sorrows were all mingled there, with now and then some gloomier reveries of later days. “He has been wandering in his mind!” whispered Lady Dorothea to her son, as he joined her in the darkened room. “He woke up, believing that he had seen his brother, and the effect was very painful.” “Has he asked for _me?_” inquired the other. “No; he rambled on about Mary, and having deserted her, and all that; and just as ill-luck would have it, here is a letter from Repton, exactly filled with the very same theme. He insists on seeing it; but of course he will have forgotten it when he awakes.” “You have written to Scanlan?” asked he. “Yes; my letter has been sent off.”