the afternoon, when the
twilight had again settled down. There was just daylight enough to see
his face when I went to him; and what a change in a fortnight! He was
paler and more worn, I thought, than even in those dreadful days in the
plains before we left India. His hair seemed to me to have grown long and
lank; his eyes were like blazing lights projecting out of his white face.
He got hold of my hand in a cold and tremulous clutch, and waved to
everybody to go away. "Go away--even mother," he said; "go away." This
went to her heart; for she did not like that even I should have more of
the boy's confidence than herself; but my wife has never been a woman to
think of herself, and she left us alone. "Are they all gone?" he said
eagerly. "They would not let me speak. The doctor treated me as if I were
a fool. You know I am not a fool, papa."

"Yes, yes, my boy, I know. But you are ill, and quiet is so necessary.
You are not only not a fool, Roland, but you are reasonable and
understand. When you are ill you must deny yourself; you must not do
everything that you might do being well."

He waved his thin hand with a sort of indignation. "Then, father, I am
not ill," he cried. "Oh, I thought when you came you would not stop
me,--you would see the sense of it! What do you think is the matter with
me, all of you? Simson is well enough; but he is only a doctor. What do
you think is the matter with me? I am no more ill than you are. A doctor,
of course, he thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you--that's what
he's there for--and claps you into bed."

"Which is the best place for you at present, my dear boy."

"I made up my mind," cried the little fellow, "that I would stand it till
you came home. I said to myself, I won't frighten mother and the girls.
But now, father," he cried, half jumping out of bed, "it's not illness:
it's a secret."

His eyes shone so wildly, his face was so swept with strong feeling, that
my heart sank within me. It could be nothing but fever that did it, and
fever had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to put him back into
bed. "Roland," I said, humoring the poor child, which I knew was the
only way, "if you are going to tell me this secret to do any good, you
know you must be quite quiet, and not excite yourself. If you excite
yourself, I must not let you speak."

"Yes, father," said the boy. He was quiet directly, like a man, as if he
quite understood. When I had laid him back on his pi