When the father grew weaker, he expressed a wish to see his brother Geoffry again.
"We don't bear each other any malice—Geoffry and I, now. If you don't mind, Sid," he said, wistfully, "I should like to shake hands with him, and bid him good-bye."
"I will write at once, sir."
Sidney despatched his letter, and the rich banker came in his carriage to the humble dwelling-place of his younger brother. Sidney did not see his uncle; he bore him no malice; he was even grateful to him for past kindnesses, but he could not face him in his bitter grief, and listen, perhaps, to explanations which he cared nothing for in that hour. With this new care staring him in the face, the other seemed to fade away, and with it much of his past bitterness of spirit. Leave him to himself, and trouble him no more!
When the interview was over, and his uncle was gone, Sidney returned to his post by his father's bed-side.
"He has been talking about you, Sid," said the father; "he seemed anxious to see you."
"I am not fit for company."
"Maurice is abroad, he tells me."
"Indeed!"
Sidney changed the subject, read to his father, talked to him of the old days when the mother and wife were living—a subject on which Mr. Hinchford loved to dilate just then. But in the long, restless nights, when Sidney slept in the arm-chair by the fire-place—he left not his father day or night, and would have no hired watcher—the father, who had feigned sleep for his son's sake, lay and thought of the son's future, and was perplexed about it. His perceptive faculties had become wondrously acute, and he could see that Sidney Hinchford was unhappy—had been unhappy before the illness which had cast its shadow in that little household. There was something wrong; something which he should never know, he felt assured. Who could help him?—who could assist him to discover it?—who would think of Sid in the desolation which was to be that boy's legacy, and do his, or her, best for him?