“Thank you a thousand times, dear Julia,” I answered, gratefully.  A heavy load was lifted off my spirits, for I came to this conclusion—­that she had said nothing, and would say nothing, to the Careys about his defalcations.  She would not make her uncle’s shame public.

I told my mother that Julia and I were going over to Jersey the next morning, and she was more than satisfied.  We went on board together as arranged—­Julia, Captain Carey, and I. But Julia did not stay on deck, and I saw nothing of her during our two-hours’ sail.

Captain Carey told me feelingly how terribly she was fretting, notwithstanding all their efforts to console her.  He was full of this topic, and could think and speak of nothing else, worrying me with the most minute particulars of her deep dejection, until I felt myself one of the most worthless scoundrels in existence.  I was in this humiliated state of mind when we landed in Jersey, and drove in separate cars to the hotel where my father was lying ill.

The landlady received us with a portentous face.  Dr. Collas had spoken very seriously indeed of his patient, and, as for herself, she had not the smallest hope.  I heard Julia sob, and saw her lift her handkerchief to her eyes behind her veil.

Captain Carey looked very much frightened.  He was a man of quick sympathies, and nervous about his own life into the bargain, so that any serious illness alarmed him.  As for myself, I was in the miserable condition of mind I have described above.

We were not admitted into my father’s room for half an hour, as he sent word he must get up his strength for the interview.  Julia and myself alone were allowed to see him.  He was propped up in bed with a number of pillows; with the room darkened by Venetian blinds, and a dim green twilight prevailing, which cast a sickly hue over his really pallid face.  His abundant white hair fell lankly about his head, instead of being in crisp curls as usual.  I was about to feel his pulse for him, but he waved me off.

“No, my son,” he said, “my recovery is not to be desired.  I feel that I have nothing now to do but to die.  It is the only reparation in my power.  I would far rather die than recover.”

I had nothing to say to that; indeed, I had really no answer ready, so amazed was I at the tone he had taken.  But Julia began to sob again, and pressed past me, sinking down on the chair by his side, and laying her hand upon one of his pillows.

“Julia, my love,” he continued, feebly, “you know how I have wronged you; but you are a true Christian.  You will forgive your uncle when he is dead and gone.  I should like to be buried in Guernsey with the other Dobrees.”

Neither did Julia answer, save by sobs.  I stepped toward the window to draw up the blinds, but he stopped me, speaking in a much stronger voice than before.

“Leave them alone,” he said.  “I have no wish to see the light of day.  A dishonored man does not care to show his face.  I have seen no one since I left Guernsey, except Collas.”