wfully, dear. It isn't half so rough on a fellow when he knows
you are sorry." And Elisabeth also was content.

Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Richard Smallwood did not die: he
had lost all power of thought or speech, and never regained them, but
lived on for years a living corpse; and the burden of his illness lay
heavily on Christopher's young shoulders. Life was specially dark to
poor Christopher just then. His uncle's utter break-down effectually
closed the door on all chances of escape from the drudgery of the
Osierfield to a higher and wider sphere; for, until now, he had
continued to hope against hope that he might induce that uncle to start
him in some other walk of life, where the winning of Elisabeth would
enter into the region of practical politics. But now all chance of this
was over; Richard Smallwood was beyond the reach of the entreaties and
arguments which hitherto he had so firmly resisted. There was nothing
left for Christopher to do but to step into his uncle's shoes, and try
to make the best of his life as general manager of the Osierfield,
handicapped still further by the charge of that uncle, which made it
impossible for him to dream of bringing home a wife to the big old house
in the High Street.

There was only one drop of sweetness in the bitterness of his cup--one
ray of light in the darkness of his outlook; and that was the
consciousness that he could still go on seeing and loving and serving
Elisabeth, although he might never be able to tell her he was doing so.
He hoped that she would understand; but here he was too sanguine;
Elisabeth was as yet incapable of comprehending any emotion until she
had seen it reduced to a prescription.

So Christopher lived on in the gloomy house, and looked after his uncle
as tenderly as a mother looks after a sick child. To all intents and
purposes Richard was a child again; he could not speak or think, but he
still loved his nephew, the only one of his own flesh and blood; and he
smiled like a child every time that Christopher came into his room, and
cried like a child ever; time that Christopher went away.

Elisabeth was very sorry for Christopher at first, and very tender
toward him; but after a time the coldness, which he felt it his duty to
show toward her in the changed state of affairs, had its natural effect,
and she decided that it was foolish to waste her sympathy upon any one
who obviously needed and valued it so little. Moreover, she ha