disproportioned remorse through all the weeks of his illness.

For the time stretches itself out to weeks--abnormal, weary weeks, when
the boundaries of day and night confound themselves--when each steps
over into his brother's territories--when it grows to feel natural,
wakefully, to watch the candle's ghostly shadows, flickering at
midnight, and to snatch fitful sleeps at noon! to watch the autumnal
dawns coldly breaking in the gloom of the last, and to have the stars
for companions.

His insane exposure of himself to the rage of the storm, on the night of
the picnic, has combined, with previous dissipation, to lower his system
so successfully as to render him an easy booty to the low, crawling
fever, which, as so often in autumn, is stealing sullenly about, to lay
hold on such as through any previous cause of weakness are rendered the
more liable to its attacks. Slowly it saps the foundations of his being.

But Algy has always loved life, and had a strong hold on it; neither
will he let go his hold on it now, without a tough struggle; and so the
war is long and bitter, and we that fight on Algy's side are weak and
worn out.

Sometimes the silence of the night is broken by the boy's voice calling
strongly and loudly for Zephine. Often he mistakes me for her--often
Barbara--catches our hands and covers them with insane kisses.

Sometimes he appeals to her by the most madly tender names--names that I
think would surprise Mr. Huntley a good deal, and perhaps not altogether
please him; sometimes he alludes to past episodes--episodes that perhaps
would have done as well to remain in their graves.

On such occasions I am dreadfully frightened, and very miserable; but
all the same, I cannot help glancing across at Roger, with a sort of
triumph in my eyes--sort of _told-you-so_ expression, from which it
would have required a loftier nature than mine to refrain.

And so the days go on, and I lose reckoning of time. I could hardly tell
you whether it were day or night.

My legs ache mostly a good deal, and I feel dull and drowsy from want of
sleep. But the brunt of the nursing falls upon Barbara.

When he was well--even in his best days--Algy was never very
reasonable--very considerate--neither, you may be sure, is he so now.

It is always Barbara, Barbara, for whom he is calling. God knows I do my
best, and so does Roger. No most loving mother could be gentler, or
spare himself less, than he does; but somehow we do