“And did worse harm, because we would not listen to advice,” said Cecil.  “Julius, I have a great deal of money; can’t I do anything now?  My father wants me to give a donation to the church as a memorial of him, but, somehow, I don’t feel as if I deserved to do that.”

“I see what you mean, Cecil, but the town is being rated to set the drainage to rights, and it will thus be done in the most permanent and effectual way.  There are some orphans who might be saved from the Union, about whom I thought of asking you to help.”

Cecil asked the details of the orphans, and the consultation over them seemed to be prolonged by her because, even now, she could not resolve to go below the surface.  It lasted until her father came to ask whether she were ready to go with him to Mrs. Poynsett’s sitting-room.  She looked very fragile and childish as she stood up, clinging to his arm to help her wavering, uncertain step, holding out her hand to Julius and saying, “I shall see you again.”

He was a little disappointed to see her no older, and no warmer; having gone thus far, it seemed as if she might have gone further and opened more.  Perhaps he did not understand how feelings, naturally slow, were rendered slower by the languor of illness, which made them more oppressive than acute.  As Mr. Charnock and his daughter knocked, the door was opened by Miles, who merely gave his hand, and went down.  Frank, who had been reading in a low easy-chair by the fire, drew it close to his mother for her, and retreated to another seat, and the mother and daughter-in-law exchanged a grave kiss.  Cecil attempted some civility about the chair, to which poor Frank replied, “I’m afraid it is of no use to speak to me, Cecil, Miles can only just make me hear.”

Regret for his misfortune, and inquiry as to the chance of restoration, were a possible topic.  Mr. Charnock gave much advice about aurists, and examples of their success or non-success; and thence he diverged to the invalid-carriage he had secured, and his future plans for expediting his daughter’s recovery.  Meanwhile Mrs. Poynsett and Cecil sat grave, dry-eyed, and constrained, each feeling that in Mr. Charnock’s presence the interview was a nullity, yet neither of them able to get rid of him, nor quite sure that she would have done so if she could.

He, meanwhile, perfectly satisfied with his own considerate tact, talked away the allotted half-hour, and then pronounced his daughter pale and tired.  She let him help her to rise, but held Mrs. Poynsett’s hand wistfully, as if she wished to say something but could not; and all Mrs. Poynsett could bring out was a hope of hearing how she bore the journey.  It was as if they were both frozen up.  Yet the next moment Cecil was holding Frank’s hand in a convulsive clasp, and fairly pulling him down to exchange a kiss, when he found her tears upon his cheek.  Were they to his misfortune, or to his much-increased resemblance to his brother?