“Who is that?” inquired he, the first time that he was at all conscious of the visits of other people:  and when his mother explained, he asked quickly, “Is he gone?”

The next day, Fred was alive to all that was going on, but suffering considerable pain, and with every sense quickened to the most acute and distressing degree, his eyes dazzled by light which, as he declared, glanced upon the picture frames in a room where his mother and uncle could scarcely see to find their way, and his ears pierced, as it were, by the slightest sound in the silent house, sleepless with pain, incapable of thought, excessively irritable in temper, and his faculties, as it seemed, restored only to be the means of suffering.  Mrs. Langford came to the door to announce that Philip Carey was come.  Mr. Geoffrey Langford went to speak to him, and grandmamma and Henrietta began to arrange the room a little for his reception.  Fred, however, soon stopped this.  “I can’t bear the shaking,” said he.  “Tell them to leave off, mamma.”

Grandmamma, unconscious of the pain she was inflicting, and believing that she made not the slightest noise, continued to put the chairs in order, but Fred gave an impatient, melancholy sort of groan and exclamation, and Mrs. Langford remarked, “Well, if he cannot bear it, it cannot be helped; but it is quite dangerous in this dark room!” And out she went, Fred frowning with pain at every step she took.

“Why do you let people come?” asked he sharply of his mother.  “Where is Uncle Geoffrey gone?”

“He is speaking with Mr. Philip Carey, my dear, he will be here with him directly.”

“I don’t want Philip Carey; don’t let him come.”

“My dear boy, he must come; he has not seen you to-day, perhaps he may do something for this sad pain.”

Fred turned away impatiently, and at the same moment Uncle Geoffrey opened the door to ask if Fred was ready.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford:  and Philip entered.  But Fred would not turn towards him till desired to do so, nor give his hand readily for his pulse to be felt.  Philip thought it necessary to see his face a little more distinctly, and begged his pardon for having the window shutters partly opened; but Fred contrived completely to frustrate his intention, as with an exclamation which had in it as much of anger as of pain, he turned his face inwards to the pillow, and drew the bed-clothes over it.

“My dear boy,” said his mother, pleadingly, “for one moment only!”

“I told you I could not bear the light,” was all the reply.

“If you would but oblige me for a few seconds,” said Philip.

“Fred!” said his uncle gravely; and Fred made a slight demonstration as if to obey, but at the first glimpse of the dim light, he hid his face again, saying, “I can’t;” and Philip gave up the attempt, closed the shutter, unfortunately not quite as noiselessly as Uncle Geoffrey had opened it, and proceeded to ask sundry questions; to which the patient scarcely vouchsafed a short and pettish reply.  When at last he quitted the room, and was followed by Mrs. Frederick Langford, a “Don’t go, mamma,” was immediately heard.