Early the next morning, when he was very weak, he said:--

"I wonder the Wesdens haven't been to see me."

"I thought they would weary you. They are scarcely friends of ours now.

I have not told them that you are ill. If you wish----"

"No, no, and they would weary you, too, my boy, and things _have_ altered very much between you. Sidney, you are sorry that they have altered, perhaps?"

"No--glad--very glad!"

"I should like to see Mattie," he said, after a pause; "why does _she_ keep away?"

"I thought that she might disturb you, sir," was the reply; "we are better by ourselves, and without our friend's sympathy. We are above it!"

"Why, Sid--that's pride!"

"Call it precaution, sir, or jealousy of anyone taking my place, between you and me, old stanch friends as we are."

His father said no more upon the question; he had been ever influenced by his son, and borne down by his strong will. He thought now that it was better to see no one but Sid, and the good clergyman who called every day--better for all! Sid knew best; he had always known best through life!

But later that day, Sidney altered his mind. He had been sitting in the arm-chair apart from his father, revolving many things in that mind, and maintaining a silence which his father even began to think was strange--he whose thoughts were few and far between now--when he said suddenly to Ann Packet, who was entering on tiptoe with a candle:--

"Ann, fetch Mattie here at once."

"Mattie, Master Sidney?--to be sure I will," she added, with alacrity; "I've been thinking about that, oh! ever so long!"

"Be quick!--don't stop! Leave a message, if she's away. Here's money, hire a cab there and back. Take the key with you, and let yourself in!"

"What's that for, Sid!" asked the father.

"I think she should be here--I think all should be here who have ever known you, and whom you have expressed a wish to see. I am selfish and cruel!"

"Oh, ho!--we don't believe that, boy!" said the father, "we know better--oh! much better than that!"

"Why shouldn't the Wesdens come?--they are old friends--they were kind to you and me in the old days."

"Yes, very kind. You're quite right, Sid; but if they trouble you in the least, Sid, keep them away. I don't care about seeing anybody very much, now."

"Father, you are worse," said Sidney, leaping to his feet.

"No, boy--better. A spasm or two through here," laying his hand upon his chest, "which will go off presently."

"That's well."

Sidney sat down again in his old place, muttering, "I wish she would come," and the father lay quiet and thoughtful in his bed once more.

Presently the father went off to sleep, and Sidney sat and listened, with his face turned towards the bed, all the long, long time, until the cab, containing Ann Packet and Mattie, drew up before the house.

They entered the house and came up-stairs together, Mattie and Ann. Sid made no effort to stop them, though his father was in a restless sleep, from which a step would waken him--he still sat there, gloomy and apathetic. They entered the room, and Mr. Hinchford woke up at the opening of the door.

"Where's Sid?" he called.

"Here," said the son, "and here's Mattie--the old friend, adviser, comforter at last!"

"Oh! why haven't I been told this before?--why have you all kept me so long in the dark?" said Mattie. "Oh! my dear old friend, my first kind friend of all of them!" she cried, turning to the sick bed where Mr.

Hinchford was watching her.

"Tell him, Mattie, that I shall not be entirely alone or friendless when the parting comes," said Sidney; "it troubles him--I see it. Ann, don't go--one minute."

He crossed to her, laid his hand upon her arm, and went out whispering to her, leaving Mattie and Mr. Hinchford in the room together.

"Don't let him go away--the boy mustn't leave me now!" he said, in a terrified whisper. "Mattie--I'm worse! I have been keeping it back from the boy till the last, but I'm awfully worse."

Mattie glanced at him, and then ran to the door and called Sidney.

"I am coming back," said he, in reply; "speak to him, Mattie, for awhile. I am wanted here."

Mattie returned to the bed-side.

"He is wanted down-stairs, he says."

"Ah! don't call him up, then, Mattie--some one has heard of his cleverness, and come after him to secure him. Well, it will be a distraction to him--when--I'm gone."

"And you so ill--and I to be kept in the dark!" said Mattie, dropping into the chair at the bed's head, and looking anxiously into the haggard face.

"I have been thinking of you, Mattie," he said, in a low voice; "thinking that you might be--of use--to him in the--future."

Mattie shook her head sadly.

"Why not?" was his eager question.

"He is strong, and young, and knows the world better than I. How could I ever be of use to him?"

"He is weak--low-spirited--not like his old self now--never again, perhaps, like his old--self! Mattie, I--seem--to think so!"

"Courage, dear friend. He will be always strong; his is not a weak nature."

"Mattie, I think he should have married Harriet Wesden, after all," said he; "he loved her very dearly. She loved him, and understood how good, and honourable he was, at last. What separated them? I--I forget."

And he pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead, in the old vacant way.

"No matter now, perhaps. They are parted--perhaps only for a time. I have hoped so more than once."

"You have? You who guess--at the truth--so well. Why, Mattie, I--have hope, then, too--that it will not be--always dark like this."

"That's not likely."

"And if the chance comes--to bring those two together--you will do it?