king for the first
time. "He is my own uncle, and has acted as my father. I intend to go to
see him; but Captain Carey has promised to go with me."

"Thank you a thousand times, dear Julia," I answered, gratefully. A
heavy load was lifted off my spirits, for I came to this
conclusion--that she had said nothing, and would say nothing, to the
Careys about his defalcations. She would not make her uncle's shame
public.

I told my mother that Julia and I were going over to Jersey the next
morning, and she was more than satisfied. We went on board together as
arranged--Julia, Captain Carey, and I. But Julia did not stay on deck,
and I saw nothing of her during our two-hours' sail.

Captain Carey told me feelingly how terribly she was fretting,
notwithstanding all their efforts to console her. He was full of this
topic, and could think and speak of nothing else, worrying me with the
most minute particulars of her deep dejection, until I felt myself one
of the most worthless scoundrels in existence. I was in this humiliated
state of mind when we landed in Jersey, and drove in separate cars to
the hotel where my father was lying ill.

The landlady received us with a portentous face. Dr. Collas had spoken
very seriously indeed of his patient, and, as for herself, she had not
the smallest hope. I heard Julia sob, and saw her lift her handkerchief
to her eyes behind her veil.

Captain Carey looked very much frightened. He was a man of quick
sympathies, and nervous about his own life into the bargain, so that any
serious illness alarmed him. As for myself, I was in the miserable
condition of mind I have described above.

We were not admitted into my father's room for half an hour, as he sent
word he must get up his strength for the interview. Julia and myself
alone were allowed to see him. He was propped up in bed with a number of
pillows; with the room darkened by Venetian blinds, and a dim green
twilight prevailing, which cast a sickly hue over his really pallid
face. His abundant white hair fell lankly about his head, instead of
being in crisp curls as usual. I was about to feel his pulse for him,
but he waved me off.

"No, my son," he said, "my recovery is not to be desired. I feel that I
have nothing now to do but to die. It is the only reparation in my
power. I would far rather die than recover."

I had nothing to say to that; indeed, I had really no answer ready, so
amazed was I at the tone he had taken. But Julia b