"You will excuse my daughter's absence, I hope," the old lady said; "she is lying down. She is not very strong, and watching has quite worn her out." "But you think your grandson better?" I asked. "Much better; yes, much better." There was thanksgiving in her very voice. Jessie said, tremulously,-- "We were very sorry to hear of his sickness." "Thank you, Miss Lee; I was sure you would be." The old lady's fingers worked nervously; I knew, in spite of her pride, what was in her heart. She longed to take Jessie in her arms, to beseech her to speak the one word that would bring her boy back to life and happiness. "He suffers less with his head, I suppose?" I said, breaking the little pause which would soon have proved awkward. "It is quite easy this morning; indeed, last night he slept for several hours undisturbed. He is so patient," she continued, "so gentle; but that is natural to him." I knew she was glad to have that opportunity of praising Bosworth; she felt as if it was indirectly doing something to interest Jessie in his favor. "It was very kind of you to come, Miss Lee," she said. "I thought you would be willing to humor a sick man's fancies, and he pined so to see all his old friends," she added, quickly, with her old-world tact, for the color began to flicker on Jessie's cheek. "My father would have come also," said the girl, talking rapidly, "but he was obliged to go out very early; and you know my mother seldom leaves her room." "It is sad that she should be so great an invalid," said the old duchess--I must call her so. "My daughter and I go out very little. We have often wished to see more of you, but age and infirmity are by force unsocial." "Mrs. Lee is fond of company," I said. I longed to do all I could to draw the two families together. "Ah, if that is the case, we shall call frequently upon her. It may do her some good;" she looked at Jessie as she spoke. "Mamma will be so pleased," she said, quite firmly; "it is very monotonous to live always shut up in her room; she is naturally very social, and to such, solitude is mournful." "So it is; but I pity the young most! If I could only have taken my poor boy's illness in his stead." She was checked by the entrance of an old servant, who whispered something in her ear. "Will you go up-stairs?" she said, turning to me; "my grandson knows you are here." She took Jessie's hand softly, leading her away, and I followed. Jessie bore up like a little Spartan, but I could see what an effort it was,--I pitied her far more than any one else. CHAPTER XXXV. YOUNG BOSWORTH'S SICK-ROOM. When we entered the sick-room, it was a shock to Jessie. In spite of all I had said, she was not prepared to find Bosworth so changed. They had put a dressing-gown upon him, but its gay colors only increased the ghastliness of his face, already wasted and worn by fever.