“Cecil!”

“Cecil, poor child.  She has been constantly in that pestiferous place.  All Worth would say was that she must be kept quiet and cool, but he has sent the same draughts for all three.  I saw, for Terry’s came here.  I fancy Worth spoke out plainly to that maid of Cecil’s, Grindstone; but she only looks bitter at me, says she can attend to her mistress, and has kept me out of the room all day.  But I will go in to-night before I go to bed,” added Raymond, energetically.  “You are ready to laugh at me, Julius.  No one has meddled between you and Rosamond.”

“Thank God, no!” cried Julius.

“Friend abroad, or you may leave out the r,” said Raymond, “maid at home.  What chance have I ever had?”

“I’ll tell you what I should do, Raymond,” said Julius, “turn out the maid, keep the field, nurse her myself.”

“Yes,” said Raymond, “that’s all very well if—­if you haven’t got the fever yourself.  There, you need say nothing about it, nobody would be of any use to me to-night, and it may be only that I am dead beat.”

But there was something about his eyes and his heavy breath which confirmed his words, and Julius could only say, “My dear Raymond!”

“It serves us right, does not it?” said his brother, smiling.  “I only wish it had not fixed on the one person who tried to do good.”

“If I could only stay with you; but I must tell Rosamond first.”

“No, indeed.  I want no one to-night, no one; after that you’ll look after my mother, that’s the great thing.”  He spoke steadily, but his hand trembled so that he could not light his candle, and Julius was obliged to do it, saying wistfully, “I’ll come up the first thing in the morning and see how you are.”

“Do, and if there is need, you will tell my mother.  A night’s rest may set me right, but I have not felt well these three or four days—­ I shall be in my own old room.”

He leant heavily on the balusters, but would not take his brother’s arm.  He passed into his dressing-room, and thus to the open door of the room where he heard his wife’s voice; and as Mrs. Grindstone came forward to warn him off, he said, “She is awake.”

“Yes, sir; but she must not be excited.”

“Raymond!”

“How are you now?” he asked, coming up to the bed.

“Oh! it is very hot and heavy,” said Cecil wearily, putting her hand into his; “I’m aching all over.”

“Poor child!” he said softly.

She lifted her eyes to his face.  “I wanted to tell you all day,” she said.  “Didn’t you come to the door?”

“Many times, my dear.”

“And now! oh dear!  I don’t recollect.  Don’t go, please.”

He sat down by her; she held his hand and dozed again.

“You had best leave her now, sir,” said the maid; “she will only go on in this way, and I can tend her.”

He would have given a great deal to have been sure that he could hold up his head ten minutes longer and to venture to send the woman away.  Cecil muttered “Stay,” and he sat on till her sleep seemed deeper, and he felt as if a few moments more might disable him from crossing the room, but his first movement again made her say “Don’t.”