“Nothing, nothing.  If I strove to take Agnes from you, lad, I did my best to make her yours again.  You don’t dislike me now, dear boy, do you?”

“Dislike you, Sir!” cried the young man.  “That would indeed be base ingratitude; you were always most kind to me, and you have loaded my Agnes with benefits.  I can not say, Sir, how unhappy it makes me to see you lying here in pain, and—­”

“And dying, Charley.  Yes, you are sorry for me, good lad.”

“Indeed, indeed I am, Sir.”

“When your Agnes left me last she kissed me on the forehead—­here.  I would not ask it else—­but—­kiss me, Charley.”

The sick man’s voice was very weak and faint, but its tones were full of pathos.  In some surprise, but without the least hesitation, the young man stooped down and kissed him.  “I shall leave you now, dear Mr. Balfour, and only hope my thoughtless chatter may not have done you mischief.  I will send my mother to you, who is so quiet, and so good a nurse, as an antidote.  Good-by for the present, Sir.”

“Good-by, dear lad—­good-by.”

Richard well knew it was good-by, not for the present, but forever.

When Mrs. Coe came into the sick man’s room she perceived in him a change for the worse, so marked that it alarmed her greatly, and she was about to softly pull the bell, when Richard stopped her with a look.

“Don’t ring,” whispered he, faintly.  “Sit down by me, Harry; put your little hand in mine.  I am quite happy.  Our boy has kissed me.”

“You did not tell him?  He does not know?” inquired Harry, anxiously.

“Nay, dear, nay; I am not quite so selfish as that,” answered he, gently.

There was a long pause.

“Do you think my mother knew about him?” asked Richard, presently.

“Oh yes—­though I strove to deceive her—­from the first moment she saw him, Richard, she knew it well.  We never spoke of it, but it was a secret we had in common.  She loved him as though he had been your very self; I am sure of that.”

“And she knew me too, Harry.”

“Impossible!  She could never have concealed that knowledge—­with you before her; for you were her idol, Richard.”

“It was afterward,” murmured the dying man.  “When I had left the house Charley told her something I had related to him, which convinced her of my identity.  I see it all now.  She felt that I was bent on vengeance, and sent you after me to use that weapon of which she knew you were possessed.  If we once came face to face, and you reproached me, my secret was certain to come out—­just as it did, Harry—­and then you had but to say, ‘Charley is your son.’”

“But why did she not tell me who you were?”

“Because, if you were too late—­if the mischief had been done on which she deemed me bent—­if your—­if Solomon had come to harm, she would not have had you know that Richard Yorke—­the father of your child—­had blood upon his hands.  Oh, mother, mother, your last thought was to keep my memory free from stain!”