The next morning after his talk with Dr. Brown he came in with that clouded brow to find Charlie by her bedside. The Colonel came up and stood looking at the face on the pillow, now wan in the reaction of the fever, and utterly weak, but still smiling at his approach. “I have been telling Charlie,” she said, in her faint voice, “that he must go back to his college. Why should he waste his time here?” “He will not go back yet,” said Colonel Kingsward; “are you feeling a little better this morning, my dear?” “Oh, not to call ill at all,” said the sufferer. “Weak--a sort of sinking, floating away. I take hold of somebody’s hand to keep me from falling through. Isn’t it ridiculous?” she said, after a little pause. “Your weakness is very great,” said the husband, almost sternly. “Oh, no, Edward. It’s more silly than anything--when I am not really ill, you know. I’ve got Charlie’s hand here under the counterpane,” she said again, with her faint little laugh. “You won’t always have Charlie’s hand, or anyone’s hand, Lucy.” She looked at him with a little anxiety. “No, no. I’ll get stronger, perhaps, Edward.” “Do you feel as if you were at all stronger, my dear?” She loosed her son’s hand, giving him a little troubled smile. “Go away now, Charlie dear. I don’t believe you’ve had your breakfast. I want to speak to--papa.” Then she waited, looking wistfully in her husband’s face till the door had closed. “You have something to say to me, Edward. Oh, what is it? Nothing has happened to anyone?” “No, nothing has happened,” he said. He turned away and walked to the window, then came back again, turning his head half-way from her as he spoke. “It is only that you are, my poor darling--weaker every day.” “Does the doctor think so?” she said, with a little eagerness, with a faint suffusion of colour in her face. He did not say anything--could not perhaps--but slightly moved his head. “Weaker every day, and that means, Edward!” She put out her thin, hot hands. “That means----” The man could not say anything. He could do his duty grimly, but when the moment came he could not put it into words. He sank down on the chair Charlie had left, and put down his face on the pillow, his large frame shaken by sobs which he could not restrain. These sobs made Mrs. Kingsward forget the meaning of this communication altogether. She put her hands upon him trying to raise his head. “Edward! Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry! I have never seen you cry in all my life. Edward, for goodness’ sake! You will kill me if you go on sobbing like that. Oh, Edward, Edward, I never saw you cry before.” Moulsey had darted forward from some shadowy corner where she was and gripped him by the arm. “Stop, sir--stop it,” she cried, in an authoritative whisper, “or you’ll kill her.” He flung Moulsey off and raised his head a little from the pillow. “You have never seen me with any such occasion before,” he said, taking her hands into his and kissing them repeatedly.