Hark! He listens. The sound of a light footfall is in the passage—a quick hand is on the lock, the door is opened, and Mabel is by his side, looking uneasily and affectionately at him, with that expression of light and beauty so peculiar to her.
"You are ill—I am sure you are," she said; "let me call my aunt."
"No, no," he replied, hurriedly, "I am better—if you will stay with me. You must not go—you will not let them drive you from me."
Mabel looked puzzled—but eagerly promised anything he desired.
"Ah," said she, rallying her spirits, "I see it now. You have those papers out again. Why are you always unhappy when you take them out?"
"Because they remind me of disappointment," he replied, bitterly.
"I have a great curiosity about them," said Mabel, "and have some fancy that it is the manuscript of a book you have written."
"You do not deny it—then do read it to me."
"It would not give you any amusement."
"Now, uncle, how can you tell that? I am sure it will not make you so miserable, if you do."