Sometimes Austin would lie, silent and motionless, for hours, with a perfectly calm and happy look upon his face.  This was when the pain relaxed its grip upon him.  At other times he would talk almost incessantly, apparently holding a conversation with people whom Lubin could not see.  One would have thought that someone very dear to him had come to pay him a visit, and that he and this mysterious someone were deeply attached to each other, so bright and playful were the smiles that rippled upon his lips.  He spoke in a low, rapid undertone, so that Lubin could only catch a word or two here and there; then there would be a pause, as though to allow for some unheard reply, to which Austin appeared to be listening intently; and then off he would go again as fast as ever.  His eyes had a wistful, far-off look in them, and every now and then he seemed puzzled at Lubin’s presence, not being quite able to reconcile the actual surroundings of the sick-room with those other scenes that were now dawning upon his sight, scenes in which Lubin had no place.  There was a little confusion in his mind in consequence; but as the days went on things gradually became much clearer.

Now Austin, in spite of his utter indifference to, or indeed aversion from, theological religion, had always loved his Sundays.  To him they were as days of heaven upon earth, and in them he appeared to take an instinctive delight, as though the very atmosphere of the day filled him with spiritual aspirations, and thoughts which belonged not to this world.  Above all, he loved Sunday evenings, which appeared to him a season hallowed in some special way, when all high and pure influences were felt in their greatest intensity.  And now another Sunday came round, and, as had been the case all through his illness, he felt and knew by instinct what day it was.  He lay quite still, as the distant chime of the church bells was wafted through the air, faint but just audible in the silent room.  Aunt Charlotte smiled tenderly at him through her tears; she was going to church, poor soul, to pray for his recovery, though knowing quite well that what she called his recovery was beyond hope.  Austin shot a brilliant smile at her in return, and Aunt Charlotte rushed out of the room choking.

The day drew to its close, the darkness gathered, and Austin, who had been suffering considerably during the afternoon, was now easier.  At about seven o’clock his aunt stole softly in, unable to keep away, and looked at him.  His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be asleep.

“How has he been this afternoon?” she asked of Lubin in an undertone.

“Seemed to be sufferin’ a bit about two hour ago, but nothing more ’n usual,” said Lubin.  “Then he got easier and sank asleep, quite quiet-like.  He’s breathin’ regular enough.”

“He doesn’t look worse—­there’s even a little colour in his cheeks,” observed Aunt Charlotte, as she watched the sleeping boy.  “He’s in quite a nice, natural slumber.  If nursing could only bring him round!”