William edged himself on to the sofa, so as to cover Henry from the gaze of any eyes that might be directed to him from the other parts of the room. "I like Anna very much," he said in a clear, low tone; "almost as I might like a sister; but I have no love for her, in the sense you would imply—if I am not mistaking your meaning. And I never shall have."
Henry looked at him wistfully. "On your honour?"
"Henry! was there need to ask it? On my honour, if you will."
"No, no; there was no need: you are always truthful. Bear with me, William! bear with my infirmities."
"My sister Anna Lynn might be, and welcome. My wife never."
Henry did not answer. His face was growing damp with physical pain.
"You have one of your fits of suffering coming on!" breathed William. "Shall I get you anything?"
"Hush! only sit there, to hide me from them: and be still."
William did as he was requested, sitting so as to screen him from Mrs. Ashley and the rest. He held his hands, and the paroxysm, sharp while it lasted, passed away. Henry's very lips had grown white with pain.
"You see what a poor wretch I am!"