In another instant Henrietta came up, very bright and joyous, with many kind messages from Aunt Roger.  Next came Uncle Geoffrey, who, after a few cheerful observations on the beauty of the day, to which his sister responded with pleasure, said, “Now, Freddy, I must be hard-hearted; I am coming back almost directly to carry you off.”

“So soon!” exclaimed Henrietta.  “Am I to be cheated of all the pleasure of seeing you together?”

No one seemed to attend to her; but as soon as the door had closed behind his uncle, Fred moved as if to speak, paused, hesitated, then bent forward, and, shading his face with his hand, said in a low voice, “Mamma, say you forgive me.”

She held out her arm, and again he sank on his knee, resting his head against her.

“My own dear boy,” said she, “I will not say I have nothing to forgive, for that I know is not what you want; but well do you know how freely forgiven and forgotten is all that you may ever feel to have been against my wish.  God bless you, my own dear Frederick!” she added, pressing her hand upon his head.  “His choicest blessings be with you forever.”

Uncle Geoffrey’s knock was heard; Frederick hastily rose to his feet, was folded in one more long embrace, then, without another word, suffered his uncle to lead him out of the room, and support him back to his own.  He stretched himself on the sofa, turned his face inwards, and gave two or three long gasping sighs, as if completely overpowered, though his uncle could scarcely determine whether by grief or by physical exhaustion.

Henrietta looked frightened, but her uncle made her a sign to say nothing:  and after watching him anxiously for some minutes, during which he remained perfectly still, her uncle left the room, and she sat down to watch for him, taking up a book, for she dreaded the reveries in which she had once been so prone to indulge.  Fred remained for a long time tranquil, if not asleep; and when at length he was disturbed, complained that his head ached, and seemed chiefly anxious to be left in quiet.  It might be that, in addition to his great weariness, he felt a charm upon him which he could not bear to break.  At any rate, he scarcely looked up or spoke all the rest of the evening, excepting that, when he went to bed, he sent a message that he hoped Uncle Geoffrey would come to his room the next morning before setting off, as he was obliged to do at a very early hour.

He came, and found Fred awake, looking white and heavy-eyed, as if he had slept little, and allowing that his head still ached.

“Uncle Geoffrey,” said he, raising himself on his elbow, and looking at him earnestly, “would it be of no use to have further advice?”

His uncle understood him, and answered, “I hope that Dr. —–­ will come this evening or to-morrow morning.  But,” added he, slowly and kindly, “you must not build your hopes upon that, Fred. It is more from the feeling that nothing should be untried, than from the expectation that he can be of use.”