“No, I cannot.”

He meant, “I cannot rise from my seat.”  Valentine supposed him only to say as usual that he could not eat.

“My mind wanders,” he presently added, in the same low dull tone; and then repeated what he had said to his old gardener, “But sometimes I find relief in prayer.”

Valentine went in rather hastily; he was alarmed not so much at the words as at his own sudden conviction that there was a good deal in them.  They might be true.  He must find some one to console, to talk to him, some one that could exercise influence over him.  He knew of no one but Emily who would be likely to know what to say to him, and he hung about on the stairs, watching for her, hoping she would come out of little Anastasia’s room; but all was so quiet, that he hoped the little sufferer might be asleep, and he dared not run the least risk of waking her.

It was now two o’clock.

John Mortimer saw some one holding aside a dark dress, and moving down the rose-covered alley towards him.  It was not dark, and yet everything looked dim and confused.  The morning star was up, it seemed to tremble more than usual; he knew he should not see it set, it would go out in its place, because the dawn came so early.

He knew it was Emily.  “Only one thing could have brought her,” he said in his dull tone, and aloud.  “The end is come.”

But no, she was at his side.  Oh what a sweet tone!  So clear and thrilling, and not sad.

“The darling is just as usual, and I have brought you some coffee; drink it, dear John, and then come in and take some rest.”

“No,” he answered in a low tone, husky and despairing.

She made out that he was sitting on the wooden bench his boys had carved for him.  It had only been placed there a few days, and was finished with an elbow, on which he was leaning his arm.  It was too low to give him much support.  She came to his side, the few trembling stars in the sky gave scarcely any light.  Standing thus, and looking at the same view that was before him, she saw the lighted windows of the children, Johnnie’s, little Bertram’s, and Anastasia’s.  Three or four stars trembling near the horizon were southing fast.  One especially bright and flickering was about, it was evident, in a few minutes to set; as far as she could see, John was gazing at it.  She hoped he was not linking with it any thought of the little tender life so likely also to set.  She spoke to him again in tones of gentle entreaty, “Take this cup, dear John.”

“I cannot,” he answered.

“Cannot!” she said, and she stooped nearer, but the dimness hid his face.

“No; and something within me seems to be failing.”

There was that in the trembling frame and altered voice that impressed her strangely.  What was failing?  Had the springs of life been so strained by suffering that there was danger lest they should break?

Emily did not know; but everything seemed to change for her at that moment.  It was little to her that he should discover her love for him now; but he would not, or, if he did, he was past caring, and he had been almost forgotten by those about him, though his danger was as great as that of any.  He had been left to endure alone.  She lifted the cup to his lips, and thought of nothing, and felt nothing, but the one supreme desire to console and strengthen.