It was a pitiable wreck that met Richard's eyes one fine June evening in the following year, when he went up to pay his almost daily visit. They had wheeled the invalid on to the sunny terrace that he might enjoy the beautiful view. Below them lay the old gray buildings and church of Kirkby Stephen. The pigeons were sitting in rows on the tower, preparatory to roosting in one of the unoccupied rooms; through the open door one had glimpses of the dark-painted window, with its fern-bordered ledge, and the gleaming javelins on the wall. A book lay on Ethel's lap, but she had long since left off turning the pages. The tale, simple as it was, was wearying to the invalid's oppressed brain. Her wan face brightened at the young curate's approach.

'How is he?' asked Richard in a low voice as he approached her, and dropping his voice.

Ethel shook her head. 'He is very weary and wandering to-night; worse than usual, I fancy. Papa, Richard has come to see us; he is waiting to shake hands with you.'

'Richard—ay, a good lad—a good lad,' returned the sick man, listlessly. His voice was still painfully thick and indistinct, and his eyes had a dull look of vacancy. 'You must excuse my left hand, Richard,' with an attempt at his old courtliness; 'the other is numb or gone to sleep; it is of no use to me at all. Ah, I always told Lambert he ought to be proud of his sons.'

'His thoughts are running on the boys to-night,' observed Ethel, in a low voice. 'He keeps asking after Rupert, and just now he fancied I was my poor mother.'

Richard gave her a grave pitying look, and turned to the invalid. 'I am glad to see you out this lovely evening,' he said, trying gently to rouse his attention, for the thin, dark face had a painful abstracted look.

'Ah, it is beautiful enough,' replied Mr. Trelawny, absently. 'I am waiting for the boys; have you seen them, Richard? Agatha sent them down to the river to bathe; she spoils them dreadfully. Rupert is a fine swimmer; he does everything well; he is his mother's favourite.'

'I think Ethel is looking pale, Mr. Trelawny. Aunt Milly has sent me to fetch her for an hour, if you can spare her?'

'I can always spare Ethel; she is not much use to me. Girls are generally in the way; they are poor things compared with boys. Where is the child, Agatha? Tell her to make haste; we must not keep Richard waiting.'

'Dear papa,' pleaded the girl, 'you are dreaming to-night. Your poor Ethel is beside you.'