All his old self seemed to have left him.
Everybody remarked it. He crawled about
the house and gave orders quite childishly.
His old clients saw he was not the same man,
and always asked to see me now. He would
talk of retiring in the spring—of taking a
little house at a watering-place near. But a
month after he had a second fit, and took to
his bed; and everybody saw he was going,
except himself. He continued to talk of what
he would do when he got up—till one day he
was seized with a strong shivering, followed
alternately by heats. I believe that day he
began to think he should never get better.
When the doctor had left him, and he grew
calmer, he asked me what I was going to
do in Palmer's matter.  This was a mortgage
of some land to my uncle.

"I suppose we file a bill to foreclose, uncle,"
said I.

"No," said my uncle; "not for my right
hand. Palmer's an honest man, but he has
had some losses lately. I will not be hard
upon him. His father, old Joe Palmer, and
I were schoolmates."

I did not remind him that he had himself
told me to proceed against him, only the day
before. I saw his mind was wandering, and
I thought it best to take no heed of what
he said.

I sat up with him that night. I felt a little
out of spirits. I led a dull life there at the
best of times, and watching all night in a sick
chamber was not calculated to make me
cheerful. Our house stood alone, just where
the houses began to appear here and there to
travellers coming into the town by the highway.
It was a kind of mansion, built of red
brick, with a double row of attic windows in
the sloping tiled roof. A high wall hid it
from the road. It had been a school, and
afterwards a madhouse, before my uncle
bought it. It was a comfortless place, with
not a room in it but smelt close, or was full
of draughts. I never knew why my uncle
choose to live there. Half the rooms were
empty, and others he never occupied—their
furniture being regularly dusted now and
then and then shut up again, till the carpet
and coverings of chairs, without being worn,
were faded and pattenless. I hated the place
as it was, and had been thinking that night
of having certain alterations in the event of
anything happening to my uncle.

Our old housekeeper bade me good night,
a little before twelve. She promised to come
and relieve me, as soon as she had had some
rest; for she had been sitting up the night
before, and my uncle did not like strangers there.
I could not have been very well myself that
night. I tried to read, but I couldn't; I was
too restless. A room door had been left open
below, and its creaking annoyed me so much
that I was compelled to go down and fasten
it. I shut the door quickly and hastened
upstairs again. I was getting heartily tired of
my watch, and I resolved to remonstrate with
my uncle on the morrow, upon his whim of
making his own household attend upon him
all night. I locked myself in, and sat down
by the fire again. I do not know how it was
that I came to think of Lionel that night.
He had not behaved well to me at all; and
when any one has not behaved well to me, I
generally shut him as much out of my
thoughts as if he had never existed. For
four years he had never taken the trouble to
write even to let me know that he was alive.
The last time I had heard from him he had
sent me back the five pounds he had borrowed,
saying he was sorry to hear of the differences
between myself and my father (which were
no business of his). I knew well enough that
he was in communication with home, and who
it was who had poisoned his mind against
me: though that mattered very little. I was
not bound to write defending myself to him;
and I didn't, and perhaps, that was his
grievance.

My uncle breathing heavily, and moaning,
aroused me from my reflections. I asked him
if he wanted anything, but he did not answer;
he seemed asleep. A moment after, I heard
him muttering, and was much surprised to
hear him pronounce the name of Lionel.
During all the six years that I had now been
there, he had never once alluded to him. I
listened, but could not distinguish any other
words, though I caught the name of Lionel
several times. I stood up, and leaning over
the bed with the lamp in my hand, listened
again and watched the expression of his
features. He looked as if he were in a bad
dream; but I think he was only wandering,
for a moment afterwards his eyes opened
wide,

"I am afraid you are in pain, uncle," said I.
" You have been moaning in your sleep."

"Yes, yes! " said my uncle, " I am in pain;
but tell me something of my nephew Lionel."

"What of Lionel, uncle?" I asked.

"Some one told me he was not doing well.
Didn't he go abroad."

"I know nothing about him," said I. " He
doesn't condescend to let me know what he
is doing."

"I did much for him; but he treated me
with ingratitude," said my uncle.

"And me also, uncle," said I.

"And yet," continued my uncle (dropping
into a childish tone quite painful to hear, from
a man who had always been known—whatever
his faults—for a certain strength of
character), " and yet, if he had come back—
if he had only come back and just
acknowledged he had done wrong, I would have
thought no more of it—indeed I wouldn't.
I liked the lad and missed him sorely. He
was like my own child to me. I am an old
man, and he is but a boy. It was not my
duty to send for him; was it, John?"

"By no means, uncle," said I.

"He had a high spirit," said my uncle.
"I used to tell him that we must bend