may I?"

"It is exceedingly kind of you," Maurice said--but made no further
promise.

No, Lionel had not been forgotten by all his fashionable friends. That
same afternoon a package arrived, which, according to custom, Maurice
opened, lest some acknowledgment should be necessary. It proved to be
Lady Adela Cunyngham's new novel--the three volumes prettily bound in
white parchment.

"Is the woman mad with vanity," said Francie, in hot indignation, "to
send him her trash at such a time as this?"

Maurice laughed; it was not often that the gentle Francie was so
vehement.

"Why, Francie, it was the best she could do," he said; "for when he is
able to read it will send him to sleep."

He was still turning over the leaves of the first volume.

"Oh, look here," he cried. "Here is the dedication: 'To Octavius Quirk,
Esq., M.A., in sincere gratitude for much kindly help and
encouragement.' Now, that is very indiscreet. The log-rollers don't like
books being dedicated to them; it draws the attention of the public and
exposes the game. Ah, well, not many members of the public will see
_that_ dedication!"

A great change, however, was now imminent. Saying as little as
possible--indeed, making all kinds of evasions and excuses, so as not to
alarm the women-folk--old Dr. Moore intimated that he thought it
advisable he should sit up this night with Lionel; and Maurice, though
he promised Francie he would go home as soon as she and the old lady had
left, was too restless to keep his word. They feared, they hoped--they
knew not what. Would the exhausted system hold out any longer against
the wasting ravages of this fell disease, or succumb and sink into coma
and death? Or would Nature herself step in, and with her gentle fingers
close the tired eyes and bring restoring sleep and calm? Maurice meant
to go home, but could not. First of all, he stayed late. Then, when the
nurse came down, she was bidden to go back to bed again, if she liked.
Hour after hour passed. He threw himself on the sofa, but it was not to
close his eyes. And yet all seemed going well in the sick-room. Both the
doctor and he had convinced themselves that Lionel was now asleep--no
lethargic stupor this time, but actual sleep, from which everything was
to be hoped. Maurice would not speak; he wrote on slips of paper when he
had anything to say. And so the long night went by, until the
window-panes slowly changed from black to blue, and from blue to gray.

A