'A headache!' said Linda. 'Oh, I am so sorry that you have got to go to that horrid inn.' 'Oh! I shall do very well there,' said Norman, trying to smile. 'Will you have my room?' said the captain good-naturedly; 'any sofa does for me.' Norman assured them as well as he could that his present headache was of such a nature that a bed at the inn would be the best thing for him; and then, shaking hands with them, he moved to the door. 'Stop a moment, Harry,' said Linda, 'and let me tell mamma. She'll give you something for your head.' He made a sign to her, however, to let him pass, and then, creeping gently upstairs, he knocked at Mrs. Woodward's door. 'Come in,' said Mrs. Woodward, and Harry Norman, with all his sorrows still written on his face, stood before her. 'Oh! Harry,' said she, 'come in; I am so glad that you have come to me. Oh! Harry, dear Harry, what shall I say to comfort you? What can I say--what can I do?' Norman, forgetting his manhood, burst into tears, and throwing himself on a sofa, buried his face on the arm and sobbed like a young girl. But the tears of a man bring with them no comfort as do those of the softer sex. He was a strong tall man, and it was dreadful to see him thus convulsed. Mrs. Woodward stood by him, and put her hand caressingly on his shoulder. She saw he had striven to speak, and had found himself unable to do so. 'I know how it is,' said she, 'you need not tell me; I know it all. Would that she could have seen you with my eyes; would that she could have judged you with my mind!' 'Oh, Mrs. Woodward!' 'To me, Harry, you should have been the dearest, the most welcome son. But you are so still. No son could be dearer. Oh, that she could have seen you as I see you!' 'There is no hope,' said he. He did not put it as a question; but Mrs. Woodward saw that it was intended that she should take it as such if she pleased. What could she say to him? She knew that there was no hope. Had it been Linda, Linda might have been moulded to her will. But with Gertrude there could now be no hope. What could she say? She knelt down and kissed his brow, and mingled her tears with his. 'Oh, Harry--oh, Harry! my dearest, dearest son!' 'Oh, Mrs. Woodward, I have loved her so truly.' What could Mrs. Woodward do but cry also? what but that, and throw such blame as she could upon her own shoulders? She was bound to defend her daughter. 'It has been my fault, Harry,' she said; 'it is I whom you must blame, not poor Gertrude.' 'I blame no one,' said he. 'I know you do not; but it is I whom you should blame. I should have learnt how her heart stood, and have prevented this--but I thought, I thought it would have been otherwise.'