Thank Heaven, in a day or two Clarian was pronounced to be out of danger, and promising rapid recovery.  We had removed him to our rooms, as soon as the violence of the convulsion left him, in order to spare him the associations connected with his own abode.  Still, the lad continued very weak, and Thorne said he had never seen so slight an attack followed by such extreme prostration.  Then it did my heart good to see how my chum transformed himself into the tenderest, the most efficient of nurses.  He laid aside entirely his brusque manner, talked in the softest tones, stole noiselessly about our rooms, and showed all the tender solicitude, all the quiet “handiness” of a gentle woman.  I could see that Clarian loved to have him at his bedside, and to feel his caressing hand.

“You see, Ned,” Mac would say, in a deprecatory tone that amused me vastly, “I really pity the poor little devil, and can’t help doing all in my power for him.  He’s such a soft little ass,—­confound Thorne! he makes me mad with his cursed suspicions!—­and then the boy is out of place here in this rough-and-tumble tiltyard.  Reminds me of a delicate wineglass crowded in among a ruck of ale flagons and battered quart-cups.”

But, though we rejoiced to see that Clarian’s health promised to be better than it had been for months, we did not fail to notice with regret and apprehension, that, as he grew physically better and mentally clearer, a darkening cloud settled over his whole being, until he seemed on the point of drowning in the depths of an irremediable dejection and despair.  Besides this, he was ever on the point of telling us something, which he yet failed of courage to put into words; and Thorne, noticing this, when, one day, we were all seated round the bed, while the lad fixed his shaded, large, mournful eyes upon us with a painfully imploring look, said suddenly, his fingers upon Clarian’s pulse,—­

“You have something to say to us,—­a confession to make, Clarian.”

The boy flushed and shuddered, but did not falter, as he replied, “Yes.”

“You must withhold it until you are well again.  I know what it is.”

Clarian quickly withdrew his hand from the Doctor’s grasp.

“You know it, and yet here, touching me?  Impossible! entirely impossible!”

“Oh, as to that,” said Thorne, with a cool shrug of the shoulders, “you must remember that our relations are simply those of physician and patient.  Other things have nought to do with it.  And, as your physician, I require you to withhold the matter until you are well enough to face the world.”

“No,—­I must reap where I have sown.  I have no right to impose upon my friends any longer.”

“Bad news travel fast enough, Clarian, and there is no wisdom in losing a friend so long as you can retain him.”

“I do not see the force of your reasoning, Dr. Thorne.  I have enough to answer for, without the additional contumely of being called an impostor.”