“Don’t quarrel with West on my account, Jan.  Only settle it amicably between you, what I am to do, and what I am to take.  I don’t care.”

“Quarrel!” said Jan.  “You never knew me to quarrel in your life.  West can come and see you as usual, and charge you, if you please; and you can just pour his physic down the sink.  I’ll send you some bark:  but it’s not of much consequence whether you take it or not; it’s good kitchen physic you want now.  Is there anything on your mind that’s keeping you back?” added plain Jan.

A streak of scarlet rose to Lionel’s white cheek.

“Anything on my mind, Jan!  I do not understand you.”

“Look here,” said Jan, “if there is nothing, you ought to be better than this by now, in spite of old West.  What you have got to do is to rouse yourself, and believe you are well, instead of lying by, here.  My mother was angry with me for telling her that, but didn’t she get well all one way after it?  And look at the poor!  They have their illnesses that bring ’em down to skeletons; but when did you ever find them lie by, after they got better?  They can’t; they are obliged to go out and turn to at work again; and the consequence is they are well in no time.  You have your fowl to-day,” continued Jan, taking himself off the table to depart; “or a duck, if you fancy it’s more savoury; and if West comes in while you are eating it, tell him I ordered it.  He can’t grumble at me for doctoring you.”

Decima left the room with Jan.  Lucy Tempest went to the window, threw it open, drew an easy-chair, with its cushions, near to it, and then returned to the sofa.

“Will you come to the window?” said she to Lionel.  “Jan said you were to sit there, and I have put your chair ready.”

Lionel unclosed his eyelids.  “I am better here, child, thank you.”

“But you heard what Jan said—­that you were not going the right way to get well.”

“It does not much matter, Lucy, whether I get well, or whether I don’t,” he answered wearily.

Lucy sat down; not on her favourite stool, but on a low chair, and fixed her eyes upon him gravely.

“Do you know what Mr. Cust would say to that?” she asked.  “He would tell you that you were ungrateful to God.  You are already half-way towards getting well.”

“I know I am, Lucy.  But I am nearly tired of life.”

“It is only the very old who say that, or ought to say it.  I am not sure that they ought—­even if they were a hundred.  But you are young.  Stay!  I will find it for you.”

He was searching about for his handkerchief.  Lucy found it, fallen on the floor at the back of the sofa.  She brought it round to him, and he gently laid hold of her hand as he took it.

[Illustration:  “He gently laid hold of her hand.”]

“My little friend, you have yet to learn that things, not years, tire us of life.”

Lucy shook her head.