George Godolphin did not feel very joyous just then: had not felt particularly joyous for a long time. Somehow, his own inward care was more palpable to him than this news, sad though it was, imparted by his brother. He lifted his right hand to his temples and kept it there. Thomas suffered his right hand to fall upon George's left, which rested on his knee. A more holy contact than that imparted by Mrs. Charlotte Pain's. "Don't grieve, George. I am more than resigned. I think of it as a happy change. This world, taken at its best, is full of care: if we seem free from it one year, it only falls upon us more unsparingly the next. It is wisely ordered: were earth made too pleasant for us, we might be wishing that it could be permanently our home." Heaven knew that George had enough care upon him. _He_ knew it. But he was not weary of the world. Few do weary of it, whatever may be their care, until they have learned to look for a better. "In the days gone by, I have felt tempted to wonder why Ethel should have been taken," resumed Thomas Godolphin. "I see now how merciful was the fiat, George. I have been more thoughtful, more observant, perhaps, than many are; and I have learnt to see, to know, how marvellously all these fiats are fraught with mercy; full of gloom as they may seem to us. It would have been a bitter trial to me to leave her here unprotected; in deep sorrow; perhaps with young children. I scarcely think I could have been reconciled to go; and I know what her grief would have been. All's for the best." Most rare was it for undemonstrative Thomas Godolphin thus to express his hidden sentiments. George never knew him to do so before. Time and place were peculiarly fitted for it: the still, light night, telling of peace; the dark trees around, the blue sky overhead. In these paroxysms of disease, Thomas felt brought almost face to face with death. "It will be a blow to Janet!" exclaimed George, the thought striking him. "She will feel it as one." "Thomas! can _nothing_ be done for you?" was the impulsive rejoinder, spoken in all hearty good-feeling. "Could it be done for my mother, George?" "I know. But, since then, science has made strides. Diseases, once deemed incurable, yield now to skill and enlightenment. I wish you would go to London!" "There are some few diseases which bring death with them, in spite of human skill: will bring it to the end of time," rejoined Thomas Godolphin. "This is one of them." "Well, Thomas, you have given me my pill for to-night: and for a great many more nights, and days too. I _wish_ I had not heard it! But that, you will say, is a wish savouring only of selfishness. It is a dreadful affliction for you! Thomas, I must say it--a dreadful affliction." "The disease, or the ending, do you mean?" Thomas asked, with a smile. "Both. But I spoke more particularly of the disease. That in itself is a lingering death, and nothing less."