“Well, now Gilbert, if you have to, I’ve no more to say—­about you.  Go, of course; but Lucy and her father are going to stay with me.  I’m the doctor and the nurse.  You go to Aunt Sarah, for that’s your ‘business reason’ and it’s all right—­I’m not blaming you—­and in a week come back for your well brother.”

“Yes, that might do,” agreed Uncle Gilbert, with much relief in his manner of saying it.  “I don’t like to impose on you—­”

“Look here—­if you want to do me a favor, you go to your wife and let me take care of these people.  In fact,” he laughed, “I don’t want you around bothering.  The steamer sails for Dublin this evening.”

Out of this pleasant banter came the fact that Uncle Gilbert could very well go on his way to Ireland.  His brother was in no immediate danger—­in fact that morning he was resting easily and his power of speech was returning.  Gilbert spoke to his brother about the plan, and no protest was made.  So that evening, sure enough, Uncle Gilbert was driven in to Liverpool by the captain, where he set sail for home.

No sooner was his brother well out of the way than Lucy’s father called to her.  He had been up and dressed all afternoon.  He was now reclining in the captain’s easy chair by the window.  Lucy came to him.

“Yes, father,” she said.

He motioned to her to sit down.  She fetched a stool and seated herself by him, so that he could touch her head caressingly as he seemed to desire.

“Where is Chester?” he asked slowly, as was his wont when his speech came back.

“In London,” she replied.  “He could not come with us.”

“So—­Gilbert said;—­but I—­want him.”

“Shall we send for him?”

“Yes.”

The father looked out of the window where shortly the moon would again shine down on the river.  He stroked the head at his knee.

“Lucy, you—­love me?”

“Oh, father, dear daddy, what a question!”

“I—­must—­tell you—­something—­should—­have told you—­long ago—­”

It was difficult for the man to speak; more so, it appeared, because he was determined to deliver a message to the girl—­something that could not wait, but must be told now.  Impatient of his slow speech, he walked to the table and seated himself by it.

“Light,” he said; and while Lucy brought the lamp and lighted it he found pencil and paper.  She watched him curiously, wondering what was about to happen.  Was he writing a message to Chester?

From the other side of the table she watched him write slowly and laboriously until the page was full.  Then he paused, looked up at Lucy opposite, reached for another sheet and began again.  That sheet was also filled, and the girl’s wonder grew.  Then he pushed them across the table, saying, “Read;” and while she did so, he turned from her, his head bowed as if awaiting a sentence of punishment.

A little cry came from the reader as her eyes ran along the penciled lines.  Then there was silence, broken only by her hard breathing, and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.  Then while the father still sat with bowed head, the girl arose softly, came up to him, kneeled before him, placed a hand on each of his cheeks, kissed him, and said: