"I was thinking"—musingly this—"that I would like her to know my wife—like to see a cordial friendship grow up between the two. Grace has never had an intimate female friend. She is singularly quiet, reticent, and reserved with every one. It would, I think, be something of a comfort to her to be brought into familiar intercourse with Willard Clendenon's sister. She needs the sympathy and society of one of her own sex."
"Let us hope they may become friends," says the captain, heartily.
"But, Fontenay, this illness of Grace—I heard a rumor of it to-day—our unfortunate affairs are by this time a town-talk. She is not seriously out of sorts, I presume, and I am not brave enough to go there now, and look on the desolation I have wrought."
Fontenay walked across the room and laid his hand on the other's arm, gravely and sympathizingly.
"No—yes," he says; "well, the truth is, Winans, I hate to be the bearer of the tidings, but the fact is simply this: Mrs. Winans' excessive agitation and grief have culminated in what the physician calls a serious attack of brain fever."
"Great Heaven! what have I done?"
The strong man reeled backward as if from a blow just as another professional rap sounded on the door.
"Come in," he says, with a strong effort at self-control.
This time it was Keene. Slender, small, and shrewd-looking, he fits his name, and his name fits him. He bows to both gentlemen, leisurely taking the seat he is offered.
"Anything new?" he is asked.