There was, perhaps, a little confusion in his countenance as he looked at her; a little surprise at the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, the strange glance of her dark eyes, as he greeted her. “You have been long coming,” said she gravely; “my father has asked for you several times.” “I am sorry; I am but just returned from the Abbey. I will go to him now,” he said, in great confusion and haste. “No, you can not, he is asleep, now; Sybil just told me so; and Dr. Symons would not have him disturbed for the world.” She spoke with an effort; she dared scarcely allow her breath to come, lest it should overpower her self-command. Each nerve was stretched, each muscle rigid in the exertion to seem calm. “Asleep――Dr. Symons! Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired he, startled into forgetting his own concerns, and really thinking of her words. “Do you not know?” she paused. “Walk in, I will tell you when I can!” Another pause, during which she tried to strangle some heaving sobs, she overpowered some rebellious flutterings. “I think I will call Hilary!” she added, quickly, as a last resource, and hurried away from the room door. He entered. Nest was there alone. She rose, but would hardly speak or come forward. “What is the matter, Nest?” exclaimed he, abruptly. “Papa is no better,” replied the child, looking down; “no better at all; and Dr. Symons, who came here yesterday, does not know how to make him better, and Sybil says, Mr. Ufford, it is all your fault!” “My fault!” cried he; “how in the world? what have I to do with it?” “Your being away, and obliging him to go out on Wednesday to the funeral, in all that storm; nobody knew where to find you, so poor papa had to do it himself.” A very unpleasant conviction accompanied the light which his understanding received by Nest’s plain speaking. He colored, sat down, and was silent for some minutes. “How long has he been ill?” said he, at last. “Ever since Wednesday evening, when he caught cold; but here is Hilary.” Mr. Ufford rose, feeling singularly uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I can not tell you how shocked I have been, Mrs. Hepburn, to hear of Mr. Duncan’s sudden illness,” said he; “I had no idea of it!” “Did you not receive a message from me? we sent yesterday to beg you would come as soon as you could, as my father asked for you several times.” “I am but just returned from the Abbey!” Hilary was silent and grave. Her looks were more of a reproach than any words she could have uttered; they spoke so plainly of grief, anxiety, and patience. He felt obliged to say something in excuse or apology; and with ever-increasing embarrassment, he said: “I am so sorry it should have happened; but I quite forgot the notice, and all about the funeral――it was most unfortunate!” Still Mrs. Hepburn was silent. “My housekeeper ought to have reminded me, when I told her I was going out,” continued he; “it was excessively careless of her to forget; I shall speak to her about it.”