“You are indeed ill, Stukely,” commenced Mr. Fairman, gazing earnestly.  “I was not aware of this, or I would have seen you before.  You have overworked yourself with the boys.  You shall be relieved to-morrow.  I will take charge of them myself.  You should not have persevered when you found your strength unequal to the task.  A little repose will, I trust, restore you.”

With every animating syllable, the affrighted blood returned again, and I gained confidence.  His tones assured me that he was still in ignorance.  A load was taken from me.

“I shall be better in the morning, sir,” I answered.  “Do not think seriously of the slightest indisposition.  I am better now.”

“I am rejoiced to hear it,” answered the incumbent.  “I am full of alarm and wretchedness to-day.  Did you observe my daughter this morning, Stukely?”

“Yes, sir,” I faltered.

“You did at breakfast, but you have not seen her since.  I wish you had.  I am sick at heart.”

“Is she unwell, sir?”

“Do you know what consumption is?  Have you ever watched its fearful progress?”

“Never.”

“I thought you might have done so.  It is a fearful disease, and leaves hardly a family untouched.  Did she not look ill?—­you can tell me that, at least.”

“Not quite so well, perhaps, as I have seen her, sir; but I should hope”—­

“Eh—­what, not very ill, then?  Well, that is strange, for I was frightened by her.  What can it be?  I wish that Mayhew had called in.  Every ailment fills me with terror.  I always think of her dear mother.  Three months before her death, she sat with me, as we do here together, well and strong, and thanking Providence for health and strength.  She withered, as it might be from that hour, and, as I tell you, three short months of havoc brought her to the grave.”

“Was she young, sir?”

“A few years older than my child—­but that is nothing.  Did you say you did not think her looks this morning indicated any symptoms?  Oh—­no!  I recollect.  You never saw the malady at work.  Well, certainly she does not cough as her poor mother did.  Did it look like languor, think you?”

“The loss of rest might”—­

“Yes, it might, and perhaps it is nothing worse.  I know Mayhew thinks lightly of these temporary shadows; but I do not believe he has ever seen her so thoroughly feeble and depressed as she appears to-day.  She is very pale, but I was glad to find her face free from all flush whatever.  That is comforting.  Let us hope the best.  How do the boys advance?  What opinion have you formed of the lad Charlton?”

“He is a dull, good-hearted boy, sir.  Willing to learn, with little ability to help him on.  Most difficult of treatment.  His tears lie near the surface.  At times it seems that the simplest terms are beyond his understanding, and then the gentlest reproof opens the flood-gate, and submerges his faculties for the day.”