"She is a little simpleton. I would not marry Georgie Beauclerc if there were not another English girl extant. And as to loving her——Harry, I only wish, if we are to lose you, that I loved you but one tenth part as little."
"Sorrow in store for her! sorrow in store for her!" he murmured, as he turned his face to the pillow. "I must send her a message before I die: you will deliver it for me?"
"I won't have you talk about dying," retorted Mr. St. John. "You may get well yet, I tell you."
Henry opened his eyes again to reply, and the calm peace had returned to them. "It maybe very soon; and it is better to talk of death than to shrink from it." And Mr. St. John grumbled an ungracious acquiescence.
"And there is another thing I wish you would do for me: get Lewis junior here to-day. If I send to him, I know he will not come; but I must see him. Tell him, please, that it is only to shake hands and make friends; that I will not say a word to grieve him. He will understand."
"It's more than I do," said Mr. St. John. "He shall come."
"I should like to see Aultane—but I don't think my head will stand it all. Tell him from me, not to be harsh with the choristers now he is senior——"
"He is not senior yet," interposed Mr. St. John in a husky tone.
"It will not be long first. Give him my love, and tell him, when I sent it, I meant it fully; and that I have no angry feeling towards him."
"Your love?"