"Talbot, lad!" said Brooke, in a low voice.
"Well, Brooke," was the gentle reply.
"Have you been asleep?"
"Oh—well—a little."
"No, Talbot," said Brooke, "you have not been asleep. And you say that you were merely to make it pleasant for me. You are full of anguish, Talbot, but you keep up a cheerful tone so as not to add to my burdens. You see I know it all, Talbot, and understand you thoroughly, so there need not be any further dissimulation."
"Brooke," said Talbot, "you are feverish from anxiety, and fanciful. Be yourself. Sing one of your droll songs. Talk nonsense. If you go on in this mournful strain, you will make me break down utterly."
At this Brooke drew a long breath.
"Forgive me, Talbot," he said. "I really don't know what has come over me. If I were alone I could sleep as sound as a top, but anxiety about another is a different thing. Still, you are right, and I mean to turn the conversation to some other subject. A song, did you say? Very well. By-the-bye, did you ever hear this?
"'Oh, Jenny Jones was a lovely gal,
And her mother worked a mangle;
She fell in love with a fine yonng lad,
Who played on the triangle.'"
Brooke hummed this, and then stopped.