"Not think of it!" he cried, shaking with emotion. "I must think of it, for he spoke the truth. I have been mad, mad! But my eyes are open now. Take them away from me," he motioned to the pictures, "take them away. I cannot bear the sight of them. And—and yet I have been so happy, so hopeful!" and he hid his face with his hands.
Leslie watched beside him till he fell into a deep, deathlike sleep; then she stole downstairs and sent for a doctor. A young man from one of the neighbouring squares came, and though he was young he was not foolish. A glance at the sleeping man told him the sad truth.
"Have you—has your father any relations, any friends who—whom he would like to see?" he asked gently.
Leslie, kneeling beside the bed, looked up at him with sharp and sudden dread in her eyes.
"Do you—do you mean——? Oh, what is it you mean?" she moaned.
The doctor laid his hand upon her shoulder. "The truth is always best, always," he said gently. "Your father has suffered a severe shock; the heart——." He stopped. "For his sake try and be calm, my dear young lady."
Leslie knelt beside him all through the night, and all through the long hours her conscience whispered accusingly, "It is you—you, who have done it. But for you he would have gone on dreaming and living; but for you—and Yorke!"
Toward dawn Francis Lisle awoke. The doctor was standing beside the bed, Leslie on her knees.
He raised his wan, wasted face from the pillow and seemed to be looking for something; then his eyes rested on her anguished ones, and he knew her and forced a smile.
"Is—is that you, Leslie?" he said, in so low a voice that she had to lay her face against his to hear him. "Is that you? I have had a singular dream. Most singular!"