st now, and a nice head and
master he made! Mrs. Verner, shut up in Verner's Pride with her ill
health, had no conception what games were being played. "Let be, let
be," the people would say. "When Mr. Fred Massingbird comes home, Roy'll
get called to account, and receive his deserts;" a fond belief in which
all did not join. Many entertained a shrewd suspicion that Mr. Fred
Massingbird was too much inclined to be a tyrant on his own account, to
disapprove of the acts of Roy. Lionel's blood often boiled at what he
saw and heard, and he wished he could put miles between himself and
Deerham.

CHAPTER XXI.

A WHISPERED SUSPICION.

Dr. West was crossing the courtyard one day, after paying his morning
visit to Lady Verner, when he was waylaid by Lionel.

"How long will my mother remain in this weak state?" he inquired.

Dr. West lifted his arched eyebrows. "It is impossible to say, Mr.
Lionel. These cases of low nervous fever are sometimes very much
protracted."

"Lady Verner's is not nervous fever," dissented Lionel.

"It approaches near to it."

"The fact is, I want to be away," said Lionel.

"There is no reason why you should not be away, if you wish it,"
rejoined the physician. "Lady Verner is not in any danger; she is sure
to recover eventually."

"I know that. At least, I hope it is sure," returned Lionel. "But, in
the state she is, I cannot reason with her, or talk to her of the
necessity of my being away. Any approach to the topic irritates her."

"I should go, and say nothing to her beforehand," observed Dr. West.
"When she found you were really off, and that there was no remedy for
it, she must perforce reconcile herself to it."

Every fond feeling within Lionel revolted at the suggestion. "We are
speaking of my mother, doctor," was his courteously-uttered rebuke.

"Well, if you would not like to do that, there's nothing for it but
patience," the doctor rejoined, as he drew open one of the iron gates.
"Lady Verner may be no better than she is now for weeks to come.
Good-day, Mr. Lionel."

Lionel paced into the house with a slow step, and went up to his
mother's chamber. She was lying on a couch by the fire, her eyes closed,
her pale features contracted as if with pain. Her maid Therese appeared
to be busy with her, and Lionel called out Decima.

"There's no improvement, I hear, Decima."

"No. But, on the other hand, there is no danger. There's nothing even
very serious, if Dr. West may