"Godfrey went off to the Rabys. He has got off the track altogether somehow; his degree, you know, was a disappointment--and--well, he'll have to come back soon and face matters out. Never mind! The mill hasn't yet put up the shutters, and I'm still here, you see, spite of the devil and all his angels, to say nothing of the frost, which I think is going to kill me, and save farther trouble. No; but I'm rather bad, old fellow, and you've just come in time to take care of me, for I can't take care of myself a day longer. I get such bad nights, and I want you to read me to sleep, I'm so tired." Guy gave himself up to the comfort of his friend's presence, with a grateful sense of his need of it. His boyish pride was gone. He told Cuthbert very little; but his silence was the reticence of one who knew that surface words were of no avail, and that no one's opinion made any difference to his own judgment. He had regained the mastery of his nerves; but his strength had been over-taxed, and he could but just manage the most necessary business, till, when on Christmas Day itself, snow fell heavily and the frost intensified, the cold tried him so much that nothing but lying still by the fire was possible to him. A belated postman struggled through the snow, with a bundle of letters, of which a whole sheaf of loving home greetings fell to Cuthbert's share; but to the lonely Guy, only a very smart Christmas card from Cousin Susan. His home had never been a very tender one; but still, such as it was, he had lost it since last year. He felt hurt at his brother's silence, and his heart failed him utterly. Why struggle to keep hold of so hard a life? He turned his face towards the wall. "Here's something for you," said Cuthbert, as he opened his last letter. "Violet says, `Florella Vyner asked me to send you this little drawing for Mr Waynflete. She says he saw her failures in drawing harebells, last summer, and she hopes these will not look quite so bad, as it is winter now.' She--hum--ha--well--Here's the drawing," said Cuthbert, breaking off as he read aloud. Guy turned round with a start, and taking the envelope, opened it. There, blue against the blue of heaven, was the little bunch of harebells, dim and cold doubtless, as compared to the originals in sun and light, but "living blue" still, fair enough to tell of springing thoughts and hopes and loves, in the dead cold of the winter snow. A warm flush came over Guy's face. How much the high consolations within him were reinforced by this little bit of human joy! Hope and courage came back, and life was worth living again. Cuthbert watched him this time with full comprehension. "Ah," he thought. "So--is that to be the cure?" Violet had remarked that Florella was apparently too shy to send the card herself. "But, it's no use pretending, she always manages to hear what we know about him. Don't you tell him I said so."