A night and a day had passed, and the household had grown somewhat accustomed to the cloud that hung over it. It was but natural. How soon do most families settle themselves after a great shock!—how easily-does any grief become familiar and bearable! Likewise, saddest thought of all—how seldom is any one really missed from among us, painfully missed, for longer than a few days—a few hours!

By evening, when all Kingcombe was yet talking over the “shocking event” at Kingcombe Holm, the “afflicted family” had subsided into its usual ways—a little more grave perhaps, but still composed. Some voluble fresh grief arose when Anne Valery came—Anne, ever foremost in entering the house of mourning—and took her place among the daughters of the family, ready to give sympathy, counsel, and comfort. It was all she was strong enough to do now. The chief position in the household was still left to Agatha.

Dr. Mason gave his directions and went away. There was nothing more to be done or hoped for. The form which lay in the Squire's bedroom might lie there for days, weeks, months—without change. The old coachman and his wife watched their master alternately; but he took little notice of them. In every conscious moment his whole attention was fixed upon Agatha. His eyes followed her about the room; when she talked to him he feebly smiled. She could not imagine why this should be, but she felt glad. It was so sweet to know herself in any way a comfort to the father of Nathanael.

She sat for hours by the old man's bedside, trying to think of nothing but him. What were all these worldly things, loss of fortune or youth, or even love itself, to the spirit that lay on the verge of a closed life—passing swiftly into eternity?

So she sat and strove to forget all that had happened, or was happening to herself; ay, though every now and then she would start, fancying there was a voice in the hall, or a step at the door. And she would hesitate whether to run away and hide herself from her husband's presence or wait and let him find her in her right place—beside his dying father.

And then—how would he meet her? how look—how speak? Yet these conjectures were selfish. Most likely he would scarcely notice her—his heart would be so full of other thoughts. What right had she, his erring wife, to obtrude herself upon his feelings at such a time? She could only look at him, and watch him, and silently help him in everything. Alas, she might not even dare to comfort him!

Towards evening the suspense of expectation grew less, from the mere fact of its having lasted so many hours. Agatha went down in the course of dinner. The dining-table looked as usual, only fuller, from the presence of the Dugdales and Miss Valery. Mary had of necessity taken her father's place, but not his chair—it was put aside against the wall, and nobody looked that way.

Agatha seated herself next to Miss Valery, quietly—they were all so very quiet. Anne whispered, “How is he?” and the rest listened for the answer—the usual answer, which all foreboded. Then Harriet made an attempt to speak of other things—of how the rain pattered against the window-panes, and what an ill night it was for Nathanael's journey. She even began to doubt whether he would come.

“He is sure to come,” said Miss Valery.

And while she was yet speaking there swept round the house a wild burst of storm, in the midst of which were faintly discerned the sound of a horse's feet. They all cried out—“He is here!”

A minute more and he was in the room—drenched through—flushed with riding against wind and rain. But it was himself, his own self, and his wife saw him.

When those who are much thought of return from absence, for the first minute they almost always seem unlike the image in our hearts.—It was not thus that Agatha had remembered her husband. Not thus—abrupt, agitated: anything but the calm and grave Nathanael.

He looked eagerly round the room—all rose: but Miss Valery was the first to take his hand.

“Thanks, Anne, I knew you would be with them. Is he”—

“Just the same—no change.”

The young man breathed hard. “Are you all here?” He took his three sisters and kissed them one after the other, silently, brotherly—Anne likewise. There was one left out—his wife, who had hidden behind the rest. But soon she heard her name.

“Is Agatha with you?”

She approached. Her husband took her hand—paused a moment—and then touched her cheek with his lips, as he had done to his sisters. He did not look at her or speak—it seemed as if he were not able.

They drew round Nathanael, nearly all weeping. There was, as is natural at such times, an unusual outburst of family tenderness. And, as was natural also, no one seemed to think of the young wife—the stranger in the circle. Agatha slid away from the group and disappeared.

Shortly after, she had taken her usual place in the sickroom. It had struck her that the old man ought to be prepared for his son's coming, so she had at once proceeded to his bedside. But it was useless—he was sleeping. She sat down noiselessly in her old seat, and watched, as she had done for many an hour in this long day, the smiling portrait at the foot of the bed—her husband's mother, whom he never saw.

While she sat, footsteps entered the room. Agatha turned quickly round to motion the intruder to silence, and perceived that it was Nathanael.

She fancied—nay, was sure—that he started when he saw her. Still, he came forward. She rose, and would have given him her seat, but he put his hand on her shoulder, and gently pressed her down again. The old servant who watched near her went respectfully to the further end of the room.

It was a solemn scene; the dim light—the total silence, broken only by the feeble breathing of the old man, who lay passive as death, without death's sanctity of calm. Over all, that gay youthful portrait which the lamp-light, excluded from the bed, kindled into wonderfully vivid life—far more like life than the sleeper below.

The young man stood mournfully watching his father, until startled by a flash of fire-light on the canvas, his eyes wandered to the painted smile of his unknown mother, and then turned back again to the pillows—the same pillows where she died.. His fingers began to twitch nervously, though his features remained still. Slowly, Agatha saw large tears rise and roll down his cheeks. Her heart yearned over her husband, but she dared not speak. She could but weep—not outwardly, but inwardly, with exceeding bitter pangs.

At length the old man stirred. Agatha remembered her duty as nurse, and hastily whispered her husband:

“I think you should move aside for a minute. Don't let him see you suddenly—it will startle him.”

“That is thoughtful of you. But who will tell him?”

“I will—he is used to me. Are you awake, father?”

Nathanael caught the word, and looked surprised.

“Dear father,” she continued, soothingly, “will you not try to wake now? Here is some one come to see you—some one you will be glad to see.”

The Squire's eyes grew wild; he uttered a thick, painful murmur.

“Some one who was sure to come when he knew you were ill—your son.” She paused, shocked at the frenzied expression of the old man's face. “Nay—your younger son—Nathanael—may he come?”

She perceived some faint assent, beckoned to her husband, saw him take her place at the bedside, and then stole away, leaving the son alone with his father.

Agatha rejoined the rest of the family. They were all sitting talking together as Nathanael had left them. After her leaving, they said, he had hardly spoken at all, but had gone up directly after her.

In about half-an-hour he re-appeared—greatly agitated. His sisters all turned to him as he entered, but he avoided their eyes. Agatha never lifted hers; she sat in a dim corner behind Miss Valery.

“What do you think of him, Nathanael?” asked Mary, in a low voice.

“I cannot yet tell; I want to hear how he was seized. Which of you saw most of him yesterday?”

“No one, unless it was Agatha. He was shut up in his study until she came.”

“And who has been most with him since?”

“Agatha.”

A soft expression dawned in the young man's eyes as they sought the dim corner.

“Will Agatha tell me what she thinks of my father's state?”

This appeal, so direct—so unexpected—could not be gainsaid.

Yet, when Nathanael addressed her, Agatha's agitation was so visible that it attracted observation—especially Mrs. Dugdale's.

“Poor child!” said Harrie, compassionately, “how pale she looks!”

“No wonder,” Mary added. “She is more worn out than any of us. She sat up all last night.”

Nathanael's eyes were on his wife again, full of ineffable gentleness. “Agatha, come over and rest in this armchair. I want to talk to you about my father.”

She obeyed. He spoke in a low voice:

“I feel deeply your having been so kind to him.”

“It was right. I was glad to do it.”

“What do you think caused his illness?”

“Doctor Mason said it was probably some severe mental shock.”

Nathanael looked alarmed. “Indeed! and did the rest of the family know anything?—guess anything?”

“Nothing.”

Her husband fixed on her a penetrating gaze; she returned it steadily.

“Agatha,” he hurriedly said, “you are a sensible girl—more so than any of my sisters. I want to consult with you alone. Come and walk up and down the room with me where they cannot overhear us.”

She did so. How strange it was!

“Do you think my father had any sudden ill news? Did he see any person yesterday?”

“A stranger came to him. Your brother's lawyer, Mr. Grimes.”

“Grimes? Oh, my poor father!”

He sat down abruptly. Agatha wondered at his mingling the two names. What should Grimes have to do with his father?

“Did any one else see Grimes?”

“I did.”

“What did he say to you? Was it”—he dropped his head, and spoke half inaudibly—“Was it anything about my brother?”

Agatha marvelled, even with a sort of pain. Father, brother, every one before her! “He never named Major Harper, that I can remember. But he said”—

“What?”

Agatha drew back. How could she speak of such petty things as money and fortune then! She answered softly, and with a full heart:

“Never mind. It was a mere trifle, not worth telling, or even thinking of now. Another time.”

Nathanael regarded his wife doubtfully, but she bore the look. She was speaking the simple truth. Loss of fortune did seem “a mere trifle” now, when he was safe back again, and she sat in his presence, he talking to her as gently as in the olden time. Her simplicity in worldly things was so extreme that even Nathanael passed it over as impossible. He only said:

“Well, all must come out ere long. We cannot think of it now. Tell me more about my poor father.”

“There is little more to tell. His manner was rather strange, I thought, all dinner-time. He drank healths as usual—especially yours. His mind was wandering then, for he called you his only son. Then Mr. Grimes gave another toast—Major Harper. At that moment your father fell from his chair.”

Nathanael started up—“I knew it would be so. He could not bear such shame—my poor old father!”

“Nathanael,” cried Harrie, from the fireside group, “come and give us your opinion. I say that he ought to be sent for at once.”

“Who?”

“Frederick”

Nathanael cried out violently, as if self-control were no longer possible.

“Never! Here have I used every effort, smothered every feeling, made every sacrifice, to save my poor father from knowing all this—and in vain! You may talk as you like, but I say Frederick shall never enter these doors. He is as good as his father's murderer.”

“Hush!” cried Anne Valery, going to him while the others stood aghast. She only knew what fearful storms can be roused in these quiet natures.

“I will not hush. I have been silent too long over his wrong-doing.”

“But some”—breathed Anne scarce audibly—“some whom he wronged have been silent for a lifetime.”

Nathanael paused; Anne's reasoning was from facts unknown to him; but he saw the agony in her face. She continued in a whisper:

“Be slow to judge him, if only for his sisters' sakes—his dead mother's—the honour of the family.”

“I have thought only too much of all these things.”

“Then, for his father's sake—his father, who is going away to the other world leaving a son unforgiven. Beware how you not only take your brother's birthright, but seal your brother's curse.”

“God forbid. Oh, Anne—Anne!”

He pressed his hand over his eyes, and leaned back a moment—leaning, though he did not know it, against his wife, who had stolen behind his chair. No one else came near; they all shrank from their brother as if he were suddenly gone mad. Looking up, he saw only Miss Valery.

“Forgive me, Anne; I cannot control myself as I used to do: I have been very ill lately, but don't tell my wife.”

Anne took no notice; perhaps she wished the wife should learn the husband's real heart as she—his old friend—knew it.

“Don't think I would harm Frederick. Not for worlds. Do you know,” and his voice lowered, “I dare not trust myself even to be just over his misdeeds, lest I should be slaying my enemy.”

“Your enemy? It is too hard a word.”

“No! it is true.” He glanced round, perceiving no one near but Miss Valery. “Anne,” he whispered, “do you remember the parable of Nathan? Why did he do it—the cruel rich man who had enjoyed so much all his life? Why did he steal my one little ewe-lamb?”

“Stay!” cried Anne, with a sudden suspicion waking in her. “I don't clearly understand. Tell me again.”

“No, no,” he said recovering himself. “I have nothing to tell—But we are wasting time. Anne, it shall be as you say.” And he drew a long hard breath. “Which of us had best write to my brother?”

Rising, he found out who had been behind him. He looked horrified.

“Agatha!—did you overhear me?”

The suspicion wounded her to the core. Her pride and sense of justice were alike roused.

“Have no fear, Mr. Harper,” said she; “I shall not betray your secrets. I do not even comprehend them; except that I think it very wicked for brothers to be such enemies.”

He made no answer.

“And,” continued Agatha, growing bolder, as she was prone to do on the side of the mysteriously wronged, “I would have sent for Major Harper myself, had not your father seemed unwilling. But the eldest son ought to be here.”

“He shall be—your husband will write,” interposed Miss Valery.

The husband moved away. He had thoroughly frozen up again into the Nathanael of old, whose coldness jarred against every ardent impulse of Agatha's temperament—rousing, irritating her into opposition.

“There is no need for him to trouble himself. What was right to be done has luckily not waited for his doing it. Elizabeth herself informed her brother.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I sent the letter myself to Mr. Trenchard's, where I found out he had been staying.”

As Mrs. Harper said this, her husband's eyes literally glared.

“You knew where he was staying?—Agatha—Agatha?”

But Agatha's look was fixed on the door, to which her sisters-in-law had gathered hastily. There was a talking outside—a welcome as it seemed. She forgot everything except her sense of right and justice to one unwarrantably and unaccountably blamed.

“It is surely he,” she cried, and ran eagerly forward.

“Nathanael!”

“Frederick!”

The two brothers, elder and younger, stood confronting each other.