’I wouldn’t listen to Mr. Cope when he told me to be sorry for my sins; and oh, Harold, if we are not sorry, you know they will not be taken away.’

‘Well, but you are sorry now.’

’I have heard tell that there are two ways of being sorry, and I don’t know if mine is the right.’

’I tell you I’ll fetch Mr. Cope in the morning; and when the doctor comes he’ll be sure to say it is all a pack of stuff, and you need not be fretting yourself.’

When Harold awoke in the morning, he found himself lying wrapped in his coverlet on Alfred’s bed, and then he remembered all about it, and looked in haste, as though he expected to see some sudden and terrible change in his brother.

But Alfred was looking cheerful, he had awakened without discomfort; and with some amusement, was watching the starts and movements, the grunts and groans, of Harold’s waking.  The morning air and the ordinary look of things, had driven away the gloomy thoughts of evening, and he chiefly thought of them as something strange and dreadful, and yet not quite a dream.

‘Don’t tell Mother,’ whispered Harold, recollecting himself, and starting up quietly.

‘But you’ll fetch Mr. Cope,’ said Alfred earnestly.

Harold had begun not to like the notion of meeting Mr. Cope, lest he should hear something of yesterday’s doings, and he did not like Alfred or himself to think of last night’s alarm, so he said, ’Oh, very well, I’ll see about it.’

He had not made up his mind.  Very likely, if chance had brought him face to face with Mr. Cope, he would have spoken about Alfred as the best way to hinder the Curate from reproving himself; but he had not that right sort of boldness which would have made him go to meet the reproof he so richly deserved, and he was trying to persuade himself either that when Alfred was amused and cheery, he would forget all about ‘that there Betsey’s nonsense,’ or else that Mr. Cope might come that way of himself.

But Alfred was not likely to forget.  What he had heard hung on him through all the little occupations of the morning, and made him meek and gentle under them, and he was reckoning constantly upon Mr. Cope’s coming, fastening on the notion as if he were able to save him.

Still the Curate came not, and Alfred became grieved, feeling as if he was neglected.

Mr. Blunt, however, came, and at any rate he would have it out with him; so he asked at once very straightforwardly, ’Am I going to die, Sir?’

‘Why, what’s put that in your head?’ said the doctor.

‘There was a person here talking last night, Sir,’ said Mrs. King.

‘Well, but am I?’ said Alfred impatiently.

‘Not just yet, I hope,’ said Mr. Blunt cheerfully.  ’You are weak, but you’ll pick up again.’

‘But of this?’ persisted Alfred, who was not to be trifled with.

Mr. Blunt saw he must be in earnest.