“Is it so?” she said.

“Yes,” said Julius, in a quiet tone, as sad and subdued as his looks.  “He slept himself away peacefully a quarter of an hour ago.”

“I suppose I must not go in now.  I longed to come before.  Poor boy, he was like a toy flung away.”

“You need not grieve over him,” said Julius.  “Far from it.  You have done a great deal for him.”

“I—­I only caused him to be put into temptation.”

“Nay.  Your care woke his spirit up and guarded him.  No one could hear his wanderings without feeling that he owed much to you.  There is a drawing to be given to you that will speak much to you.  It is at the Rectory; it was not safe here.  And his mother is here.  I can’t but hope her soul has been reached through him.  Yes,” as Lenore leant against the gate, her warm tears dropping, “there is no grief in thinking of him.  He had yearnings and conceptions that could not have been gratified in his former station; and for him an artist’s life would have been more than commonly uphill work—­full of trial.  I wish you could have heard the murmured words that showed what glorious images floated before him—­no doubt now realized.”

“I am glad he was really good,” were the only words that would come.

The hearts of both were so full, that these words on what was a little further off were almost necessary to them.

“Take my arm,” said Julius, kindly.  “Our roads lie together down the lane.  How is your sister?  Better, I hope, as I see you here.”

“She has slept more quietly.  Mr. M’Vie thinks her a little better.”

“So it is with Terry de Lancey,” said Julius; “he is certainly less feverish to-day;” but there was no corresponding tone of gladness in the voice, though he added, “Cecil is going on well too.”

“And—­” Poor Lenore’s heart died within her; she could only press his arm convulsively, and he had mercy on her.

“Frank’s illness has been different in character from the others,” he said; “the fever has run much higher, and has affected the brain more, and the throat is in a very distressing state; but Dr. Worth still does not think there are specially dangerous symptoms, and is less anxious about him than Raymond.”

“Ah! is it true?”

“He does not seem as ill as Frank; but there have been bleedings at the nose, which have brought him very low, and which have hitherto been the worst symptoms,” and here the steady sadness of his voice quivered a little.

Lenore uttered a cry of dismay, and murmured, “Your mother?”

“She is absorbed in him.  Happily, she can be with him constantly.  They seem to rest in each other’s presence, and not to look forward.”

“And Cecil?”

“It has taken the lethargic turn with Cecil.  She is almost always asleep, and is now, I believe, much better; but in truth we have none of us been allowed to come near her.  Her maid, Grindstone, has taken the sole charge, and shuts us all out, for fear, I believe, of our telling her how ill Raymond is.”