Dudleigh's face was suffused with a sudden glow of delight. “It is kind of you to notice it,” said he, earnestly, “but I'm sure you are mistaken. I could do far more if necessary. This is my place, and this is my truest occupation.” “For that very reason,” said Edith, in tones that showed more concern than she would have cared to acknowledge--“for that very reason you ought to preserve yourself--for his sake. You confine yourself here too much, and take too little rest. I see that you feel it already.” “I?” said Dudleigh, with a light laugh, whose musical cadence sounded very sweet to Edith, and revealed to her another side of his character very different from that sad and melancholy one which he had thus far shown--“I? Why, you have no idea of my capacity for this sort of thing. Excuse me, Miss Dalton, but it seems absurd to talk of my breaking down under such work as this.” Edith shook her head. “You show traces of it,” said she, in a gentle voice, looking away from him, “which common humanity would compel me to notice. You must not do all the work; I must have part of it.” “_You?_” exclaimed Dudleigh, with infinite tenderness in his tone. “Do you think that I would allow _you_ to spend any more time here than you now do, or that I would spare myself at the expense of _your_ health? Never! Aside from the fact that your father is so dear to me, there are considerations for you which would lead me to die at my post rather than allow you to have any more trouble.” There was a fervor in Dudleigh's tones which penetrated to Edith's heart. There was a deep glow in his eyes as he looked at her which Edith did not care to encounter. “You are of far more importance to Sir Lionel than I am,” said she, after a pause which began to be embarrassing. “But what will become of him if--if you are prostrated?” “I shall not be prostrated,” said Dudleigh. “I think you will if this state of things continues.” “Oh, I don't think there is any prospect of my giving up just yet.” “No. I know your affection for him, and that it would keep you here until--until you could not stay any longer; and it is this which I wish to avoid.” “It is my duty,” said Dudleigh. “He is one whom I revere more than any other man, and love as a father. Besides, there are other things that bind me to him--his immeasurable wrongs, his matchless patience--wrongs inflicted by one who is my father; and I, as the son, feel it a holy duty, the holiest of all duties, to stand by that bedside and devote myself to him. He is your father, Miss Dalton, but you have never known him as I have known him--the soul of honor, the stainless gentleman, the ideal of chivalry and loyalty and truth. This he is, and for this he lies there, and my wretched father it is who has done this deed. But that father is a father only in name, and I have long ago transferred a son's love and a son's duty to that gentle and noble and injured friend.”