“Charlie--oh, please let me stay with you. Who should be with you but your sister? And I know--a great deal about nursing. Mamma----” “I say--hold your tongue, can’t you? Who wants you to talk--of anything of that sort?” Bee heard a slight stir in the curtains, and looking back hastily as she dried her streaming eyes saw the laconic nurse making signs to her. The sight of the stranger was more effectual even than her signs, and restored Bee’s self-command at once. “Why did they bring you here?” said Charlie. “I didn’t want you; they know what I want, well enough.” “What is it you want, oh, Charlie dear? Papa--and all of us--will do anything in the world you want.” “Papa,” he said, and his weakened and irregular voice ran through the gamut from a high feeble tone of irritation to the quaver of that self-pity which is so strong in all youthful trouble. “Yes, he would be pleased to get me out of the way, and be done with me now.” “Oh, Charlie! You know how wrong that is. Papa has been--miserable--” Charlie uttered a feeble laugh. He put his hand upon his chin, stroking down the irregular tufts of hair; even in his low state the poor boy had a certain pride in what he believed to be his beard. “Not much,” he said. “I daresay you’ve made a fuss--Betty and you. The governor will crack up Arthur for the F.O. and let me drop like a stone.” “No, Charlie, no. He has no such thought--he has taken such trouble not to let it be known. He would not advertise or anything.” “Advertise!” A sudden hot flush came over the gaunt face. “For me!” It did not seem that such a thought had ever occurred to the young man. “Like the fellows in the newspapers that steal their master’s money--’All is arranged and you can return to your situation.’ By George!” There was again a faint rustle in the curtains. Bee sprang up with her natural impatience, and went straight to the spot whence this sound had come. “If I am not to speak to my brother alone and in freedom, I will not speak to him at all,” she said. The laconic nurse remonstrated violently with her lips and eyes. “Don’t excite him. Don’t disturb him. He’ll not sleep all night,” she managed to convey, with much arching of the eyebrows and mouth, then disappeared silently out of the bedroom behind. “What’s that?” said Charlie, sharply. He moved on his sofa, and turned his head round with difficulty. “Are there more of you to come?” There seemed a kind of hope and expectation in the question, but when Bee answered with despondency, “There’s only me, Charlie,” he broke out harshly: “I don’t want you--I want none of you; I told them so. You can go and tell my father, as soon as they let me get out I’m going off to New Zealand or somewhere--the furthest-off place I can get to.” “Oh, Charlie!” cried Bee, taking every word as the sincerest utterance of a fixed intention, “what could you do there?”