Pretty Stella De Vere, hearing of his illness, called often to inquire about him, and sent daily gifts of hot-house flowers and fruits to tempt the delicate appetite, and in the solitude of her own soul knew that a dear, dear hope was fading from her life forever. Sometimes, when the hot, delirious fever fell, and reason held her throne against the enemy, the young man's heart ached at the sight of the pale, worn faces that always wore a cheerful smile for his waking hours. In the contest that was waging he felt very sure which would come off conqueror; but with the fortitude which had marked his life, he kept his opinions to himself, unwilling to grieve his mother and Grace, and unwilling to hasten Lulu's return on account of the investigation she was pursuing, much as he longed to see her. One unsatisfied wish troubled his feverish hours, and lent a wistful light to his eyes that Grace could not bear to see. Had it pleased God to restore his health, he would have liked to have gone to London and have brought back her child to her, that he might have had the pleasure of reviving hope in her desolate heart. Still it was a comfort to know that it would almost certainly be brought back to her some time. With this thought he must content himself, and he did as well as he was able. "I am wearing you both out," he said, sadly, one day, to the two who were trying to hide beneath cheerful smiles the heart-ache which a recent visit from Doctor Constant had left, his grave face showing his opinion too plainly. "This long illness, after all you have endured, is unpardonable in me. Mother, why not have a nurse for me, and allow yourself and Mrs. Winans some rest?" The trembling hand of the gray-haired mother fluttered down like a blessing on the burning brow of her eldest-born--the son who had always been a blessing to her from the hour when his baby lips stirred the mother-love into life within her breast until now, when the hand that had smoothed her widowed path so gently, lay still and wasted on the counterpane, never to take up life's burden again. "Always unselfish," she answered, in faltering tones. "No, Willie, dear boy, I cannot delegate to others the dear task of soothing your hours of pain." "Nor can I," supplemented Grace, laying an impulsive, clasping hand on the thin one that rested outside the counterpane. "I have put myself in Lulu's place, and it is as a sister that I claim the privilege of waiting on you." "Thanks," he answered, deeply moved, and Mrs. Clendenon, with an irrepressible sob, went gliding from the room. "Oh, about Lulu," she says, with assumed carelessness to hide her real feelings. "Why is it you won't consent to have your mother send for her to come on while you are so sick? Don't you want to see her?"