“Why not bring the child then? That might satisfy him. Does he care for the child, or is it only a fancy, a wandering in his head? Anyhow, let them bring him. It might be of some use.” “Do you think he--knows? Do you think he understands--and--means what he is saying?” Mary faltered forth these words, scarcely knowing what she said, feeling that she could not explain how it was that Nello was not near--and finding it so strange, so strange to be talking thus to--John; could it be really John? After all that had sundered them, after the miseries that had passed over him, the price still set upon his head, was it he who stood so quietly, assuming his household place, taking his part in the nursing of the old man? She could not believe her senses, and how could she talk to him, calmly as the circumstances required, gently and steadily, as if he had never been away? “Most likely not,” he said; “but something has excited his fancy, and the sight of my boy might calm it. Let some one bring Nello.” He spoke with the air of one used to be obeyed, and whom also in this particular it would be easy to obey. “We sent him to school. I am very sorry--I was against it,” said Mary, trembling more and more. Mr. Pen was frightened too. It is one thing doing “for the best” with a little unprotected parentless child, and quite a different thing to answer the child’s father when he comes and asks for it. Mr. Pen paled and reddened ten times in a minute. He added, faltering-- “It was by my advice--John. I thought it was the best thing for him. You see I did not know----” Here he broke off abruptly, in the confusion of his mind. “Then it is needless saying any more,” said the stranger, hastily, with a tone in which a little sharpness of personal disappointment and vexation seemed to mingle. This conversation had been in an undertone, as attendants in a sick-room communicate with each other, without intermitting their special services to the patient. The Squire had been still in their hands for the moment, ceasing to struggle, apparently caught in some dim confused way by the sound of their voices. He looked about him confusedly, like a blind man, turning his head slightly, as if his powers were being restored to him, to the side on which John stood. A gleam of half-meaning, of interest, and wavering, half-roused attention, seemed to come over his face. Then he sank back gently on his pillows, struggling no longer. The paroxysm was over. The nurse withdrew her hand with a sigh of relief. “Now,” she said, “if we leave him perfectly quiet, he may get some sleep. I will call you in a moment if there is any change.”