“Ask my father,” cried Mary—“ask him if he would like to see Frederick.”
As she said this rather too loudly, there was a strange smothered sound from the bed. Agatha ran. The old Squire was gasping, choking, with the frightful effort to speak. His face was purple—his eyes wild—yet the poor bound tongue refused to obey his will.
“Hush! be composed,” said his daughter-in-law, soothingly. “You shall see no one. No one shall be sent for. Will that do?”
He grew calmer, but restless still.
“Shall my husband come? He will do you good—he does everybody good. Would you like to see Nathanael?”
A faint assent—scarcely intelligible—and then the Squire dropped off again into sleep. Agatha left him and went to his daughters, who lingered outside.
“I think Major Harper has somehow vexed him. He will only see my husband. A messenger must be sent to Cornwall. Who will write?”
“Who but yourself,” said Eulalie, hardly able even then to repress a look, beneath which Agatha's cheek glowed fiery red; “who so fit as yourself to tell this to your husband?”
“You are right;” and she smothered down her swelling heart into a grave dignity. “Get the messenger ready—I will write here—in this room.”
She turned-within—closed the door—looked once more at the old man, trying by that mournful sight to still the earthly anger that was again rising in her heart,—and sat down to write.