ok out for me some fine evening, for I tell
you, sir, I've got so used to it now, that I can't get through the day
without a talk with you; and though the doctor and I do have a bout now
and then over the Yankees, I 'd like to see the man who 'd abuse America
before him, and say one word against England in the face of Shaver
Quackinboss."

CHAPTER X. THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON

When Sir William Heathcote learned that Mrs. Morris had quitted his
house, gone without one word of adieu, his mind reverted to all the
bygone differences with his son, and to Charles did he at once ascribe
the cause of her sudden flight. His health was in that state in which
agitation becomes a serious complication, and for several days he was
dangerously ill, violent paroxysms of passion alternating with long
intervals of apathy and unconsciousness. The very sight of Charles in
his room would immediately bring on one of his attacks of excitement,
and even the presence of May Leslie herself brought him no alleviation
of suffering. It was in vain that she assured him that Mrs. Morris
left on reasons known only to herself; that even to May herself she had
explained nothing, written nothing. The old man obstinately repeated his
conviction that she had been made the victim of an intrigue, and that
Charles was at the bottom of it. How poor May strove to combat this
unjust and unworthy suspicion, how eagerly she defended him she loved,
and how much the more she learned to love for the defending of him.
Charles, too, in this painful emergency, displayed a moderation and
self-control for which May had never given him credit. Not a hasty
word or impatient expression escaped him, and he was unceasing in every
attention to his father which he could render without the old man's
knowledge. It was a very sad household; on every side there was
sickness and sorrow, but few of those consolations that alleviate pain
or lighten suffering. Sir William desired to be left almost always alone;
Charles walked moodily by himself in the garden; and May kept her
room, and seldom left it. Lord Agincourt came daily to ask after them,
but could see no one. Even Charles avoided meeting him, and merely sent
him a verbal message, or a few hasty lines with a pencil.

Upwards of a week had passed in this manner, when, among the letters
from the post, which Charles usually opened and only half read through,
came a very long epistle from Alfred Layton. His name was on t