Dudleigh lived on as before, assiduous in his attendance, dividing his time chiefly between nursing and study of the papers already mentioned. He never went out of the grounds on those occasional rides, and if any one in the neighborhood noticed this, the recent sad events might have been considered an excuse. Thus these two were thrown upon one another exclusively. For each there was no other society. As for Edith, Dudleigh had done so much that she felt a natural gratitude; and more than this, there was in her mind a sense of security and of dependence.

Meanwhile Dudleigh's pale face grew paler. His sleep had all along been utterly inadequate, and the incessant confinement had begun to show its effects. He had been accustomed to an open-air life and vigorous exercise. This quiet watching at the bedside of Dalton was more trying to his strength than severe labor could have been.

The change in him was not lost on Edith, and even if gratitude toward him had been wanting, common humanity would have impelled her to speak about it.

One day, as she came in, she was struck by his appearance. His face was ghastly white, and he had been sitting with his head in his hands as she softly entered. In an instant, as he heard her step, he started up, and advanced with a radiant smile, a smile caused by her approach.

“I'm afraid that you are overtasking yourself,” said Edith, gently, after the usual greeting. “You are here too much. The confinement is too trying. You must take more rest and exercise.”

Dudleigh's face was suffused with a sudden glow of delight.

“It is kind of you to notice it,” said he, earnestly, “but I'm sure you are mistaken. I could do far more if necessary. This is my place, and this is my truest occupation.”

“For that very reason,” said Edith, in tones that showed more concern than she would have cared to acknowledge—“for that very reason you ought to preserve yourself—for his sake. You confine yourself here too much, and take too little rest. I see that you feel it already.”

“I?” said Dudleigh, with a light laugh, whose musical cadence sounded very sweet to Edith, and revealed to her another side of his character very different from that sad and melancholy one which he had thus far shown—“I? Why, you have no idea of my capacity for this sort of thing. Excuse me, Miss Dalton, but it seems absurd to talk of my breaking down under such work as this.”

Edith shook her head.

“You show traces of it,” said she, in a gentle voice, looking away from him, “which common humanity would compel me to notice. You must not do all the work; I must have part of it.”

“You?” exclaimed Dudleigh, with infinite tenderness in his tone. “Do you think that I would allow you to spend any more time here than you now do, or that I would spare myself at the expense of your health? Never! Aside from the fact that your father is so dear to me, there are considerations for you which would lead me to die at my post rather than allow you to have any more trouble.”

There was a fervor in Dudleigh's tones which penetrated to Edith's heart. There was a deep glow in his eyes as he looked at her which Edith did not care to encounter.

“You are of far more importance to Sir Lionel than I am,” said she, after a pause which began to be embarrassing. “But what will become of him if—if you are prostrated?”

“I shall not be prostrated,” said Dudleigh.

“I think you will if this state of things continues.”

“Oh, I don't think there is any prospect of my giving up just yet.”

“No. I know your affection for him, and that it would keep you here until—until you could not stay any longer; and it is this which I wish to avoid.”

“It is my duty,” said Dudleigh. “He is one whom I revere more than any other man, and love as a father. Besides, there are other things that bind me to him—his immeasurable wrongs, his matchless patience—wrongs inflicted by one who is my father; and I, as the son, feel it a holy duty, the holiest of all duties, to stand by that bedside and devote myself to him. He is your father, Miss Dalton, but you have never known him as I have known him—the soul of honor, the stainless gentleman, the ideal of chivalry and loyalty and truth. This he is, and for this he lies there, and my wretched father it is who has done this deed. But that father is a father only in name, and I have long ago transferred a son's love and a son's duty to that gentle and noble and injured friend.”

This outburst of feeling came forth from Dudleigh's inmost heart, and was spoken with a passionate fervor which showed how deeply he felt what he said. Every word thrilled through Edith. Bitter self-reproach at that moment came to her, as she thought of her own relations to her father. What Dudleigh's had been she did not know, but she saw that in him her father had found a son. And what had his daughter been to him? Of that she dared not think. Her heart was wrung with sharp anguish at the memories of the past, while at the same time she felt drawn more closely to Dudleigh, who had thus been to him all that she had failed to be. Had she spoken what she thought, she would have thanked and blessed him for those words. But she did not dare to trust herself to speak of that; rather she tried to restrain herself; and when she spoke, it was with a strong effort at this self-control.

“Well,” she said, in a voice which was tremulous in spite of all her efforts, “this shows how dear you must be to him, since he has found such love in you, and so for his sake you must spare yourself. You must not stay here so constantly.”

“Who is there to take my place?” asked Dudleigh, quietly.

“I,” said Edith.

Dudleigh smiled.

“Do you think,” said he, “that I would allow that? Even if I needed more rest, which I do not, do you think that I would take it at your expense—that I would go away, enjoy myself, and leave you to bear the fatigue? No, Miss Dalton; I am not quite so selfish as that.”

“But you will let me stay here more than I do,” said Edith, earnestly. “I may as well be here as in my own room. Will you not let me have half the care, and occasionally allow you to take rest?”

She spoke timidly and anxiously, as though she was asking some favor. And this was the feeling that she had, for it seemed to her that this man, who had been a son to her father, had more claims on his love, and a truer right here, than she, the unworthy daughter.

Dudleigh smiled upon her with infinite tenderness as he replied:

“Half the care! How could you endure it? You are too delicate for so much. You do too much already, and I am only anxious to relieve you of that. I was going to urge you to give up half of the afternoon, and take it myself.”

“Give up half the afternoon!” cried Edith. “Why, I want to do more.”

“But that is impossible. You are not strong enough,” said Dudleigh. “I fear all the time that you are now overworking yourself. I would never forgive myself if you received any harm from this.”

“Oh, I am very much stronger than you suppose. Besides, nursing is woman's work, and would fatigue me far less than you.”

“I can not bear to have you fatigue yourself in any way. You must not—and I would do far more rather than allow you to have any trouble.”

“But even if my health should suffer, it would not be of much consequence. So at least let me relieve you of something.”

“Your health?” said Dudleigh, looking at her with an earnest glance; “your health? Why, that is every thing. Mine is nothing. Can you suggest such a thing to me as that I should allow any trouble to come to you? Besides, your delicate health already alarms me. You have not yet recovered from your illness. You are not capable of enduring fatigue, and I am always reproaching myself for allowing you to stay here as much as you do. The Dudleighs have done enough. They have brought the father to this;” and he pointed mournfully to the bed. “But,” he added, in a tremulous voice, “the daughter should at least be saved, and to have harm come to her would be worse than death itself—to me.”

Edith was silent for a few moments. Her heart was beating fast. When she spoke, it was with an effort, and in as calm a voice as possible.

“Oh,” she said, “I am quite recovered. Indeed, I am as well as ever, and I wish to spend more time here. Will you not let me stay here longer?”

“How can I? The confinement would wear you out.”

“It would not be more fatiguing than staying in my own room,” persisted Edith.

“I'm afraid there would be very much difference,” said Dudleigh. “In your own room you have no particular anxiety, but here you would have the incessant responsibility of a nurse. You would have to watch your father, and every movement would give you concern.”

“And this harassing care is what I wish to save you from, and share with you,” said Edith, earnestly. “Will you not consent to this?”

“To share it with you?” said Dudleigh looking at her with unutterable tenderness. “To share it with you?” he repeated. “It would be only too much happiness for me to do so, but not if you are going to overwork yourself.”

“But I will not,” said Edith. “If I do, I can stop. I only ask to be allowed to come in during the morning, so as to relieve you of some of your work. You will consent, will you not?”

Edith asked him this as though Dudleigh had exclusive right here, and she had none. She could not help feeling as if this was so, and this feeling arose from those memories which she had of that terrible past, when she ignorantly hurled at that father's heart words that stung like the stings of scorpions. Never could she forgive herself for that, and for this she now humbled herself in this way. Her tone was so pleading that Dudleigh could refuse no longer. With many deprecatory expressions, and many warnings and charges, he at last consented to let her divide the morning attendance with him. She was to come in at eleven o'clock.

This arrangement was at once acted upon. On the following day Edith came to her father's room at eleven. Dudleigh had much to ask her, and much to say to her, about her father's condition. He was afraid that she was not strong enough. He seemed to half repent his agreement. On the other hand, Edith assured him most earnestly that she was strong enough, that she would come here for the future regularly at eleven o'clock, and urged him to take care of his own health, and seek some recreation by riding about the grounds. This Dudleigh promised to do in the afternoon, but just then he seemed in no hurry to go. He lingered on. They talked in low whispers, with their heads close together. They had much to talk about; her health, his health, her father's condition—all these had to be discussed. Thus it was that the last vestiges of mutual reserve began to be broken down.

Day succeeded to day, and Edith always came to her father's room in the morning. At first she always urged Dudleigh to go off and take exercise, but at length she ceased to urge him. For two or three hours every day they saw much of one another, and thus associated under circumstances which enforced the closest intimacy and the strongest mutual sympathy.