"I'll tell you later--not now. Go on with your story, Philip. When you know all you will see why I was startled. It has nothing to do with you. I wish you and Miss Layard all the happiness that can fall to the lot of mortals; but I need scarcely tell you that, my dear, dear Philip."
"I know it, Frank. You need not tell me you wish me well. You're the most-generous-hearted fellow alive. You have suffered cruel wrong through my blood, but never through me personally. Yet I believe if I had done you a personal wrong you would shake my hand and wish me well all the same. I believe if you yourself had thought of Hetty, and she chose me, you would be just as cordial in your good wishes as you are now."
"I should indeed," said Bramwell, with a strange light in his eyes. "And now tell me the rest of your story."
Again he shook his brother-in-law warmly by both hands, and then sat down.
"There is nothing else to tell. When we came over here to see about the boy last night I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. By the way, how did he get on after I left?"
"For a while his rest was broken," said Bramwell, with a wan smile, "but after that he slept perfectly till it was time to get up."
"I knew the child was only dreaming. But Hetty"--yes, he had called her Hetty to his brother-in-law: how incomparably rich this made him feel!--"but Hetty was fairly terrified, and I thought it better to give way to her. It was nothing but a nightmare or a dream."
"Do you know, I am not so sure of that, Philip?"
"So sure of what?" asked the other man, drawing down his straight eyebrows over his eyes, and peering into Bramwell's face, looking for symptoms of incipient insanity.
"That it was all a dream," answered the other, returning his gaze.