He lay there wearily among the downy pillows, with his wasted white hand over his heavy eyes, and his thoughts fixed on the beautiful wife, so fatally lost to him. Only that morning the physician had warned him. "You must rouse yourself, Le Roy, or you will die from the effects of your terrible wound. The strain upon your system has been most severe. I have exhausted my art in bringing you to the point of convalescence. Now, you must help yourself. If you give way to this fit of despondency, this _ennui_ that I see creeping upon you, I will not answer for the consequences. You must rally from this spell of dejection. Make yourself an object in life, and live for it." Then he went away. He had done all he could for the suffering body; he did not know how to minister to a mind diseased. He had detected the symptoms, but St. Leon alone could apply the remedy. He lay silently thinking. There was only one object for which he could have cared to live, and that was unattainable. Why should he exert himself to hold on to a life that was scarce worth living? Why not let go the anchor and drift idly with the tide that dashed him hither and thither on its restless waves? Who would greatly care to live when all of life had grown into a long regret? His door unclosed softly, but he did not turn his head. He knew that his mother had had visitors, and he supposed that she was now returning. He did not look at her--he knew that she could not bear to see the heavy sadness in his eyes. A light step stole across the floor, and saying to himself, "She thinks me asleep," he gently closed his eyes. It was a harmless deception he often practiced upon her. Thinking him asleep, she would feel more content. "Papa!" said a proud, happy little voice, and a soft hand fluttered down upon his own. He opened his eyes with a start. A child was standing beside him--a beautiful boy, with hair and eyes like his own, and his mother's wistful smile--Laurence Lynn! "Laurie!" he cried. "Yes, papa, I have come home to you. I am your son--really and truly. Are you not glad?" cried the child, who had been so loved and petted all his life that it was no vanity in him to imagine that any one must be proud and glad in possession of him. Glad! St. Leon could not speak for a moment. He was dazed with the suddenness of the surprise. He threw his arm about his son, and strained him to his heart; but his thoughts were with the mother more than the child. "Did you come alone, dear?" he asked, as soon as he could command his voice. "Oh, no; mamma and Uncle Carlyle came with me. Mamma!"--he suddenly looked around, then broke from St. Leon's clasp and ran to the door--"mamma, come back!" he called. "Why did you run away?" St. Leon leaned on his elbow and watched the door impatiently, his breath coming and going in great strangling gasps--his heart full of trembling anticipation.