ure from the
quietude and monotony of his life at Worth, and perhaps also from the
consciousness that he had about him loving and devoted hearts. I say
hearts, for every servant at Worth was attached to him, remembering the
great consideration and courtesy of his earlier years, and grieving to
see his youthful and once vigorous frame reduced to so sad a strait.
Books he never read himself, and even the charm of Raffaelle's reading
seemed to have lost its power; though he never tired of hearing the boy
sing, and liked to have him sit by his chair even when his eyes were
shut and he was apparently asleep. His general health seemed to me to
change but little either for better or worse. Dr. Frobisher had led me
to expect some such a sequel. I had not concealed from him that I had
at times entertained suspicions as to my brother's sanity; but he had
assured me that they were totally unfounded, that Sir John's brain was
as clear as his own. At the same time he confessed that he could not
account for the exhausted vitality of his patient,--a condition which he
would under ordinary circumstances have attributed to excessive study or
severe trouble. He had urged upon me the pressing necessity for complete
rest, and for much sleep. My brother never even incidentally referred to
his wife, his child, or to Mrs. Temple, who constantly wrote to me from
Royston, sending kind messages to John, and asking how he did. These
messages I never dared to give him, fearing to agitate him, or retard
his recovery by diverting his thoughts into channels which must
necessarily be of a painful character. That he should never even mention
her name, or that of Lady Maltravers, led me to wonder sometimes if one
of those curious freaks of memory which occasionally accompany a severe
illness had not entirely blotted out from his mind the recollection of
his marriage and of his wife's death. He was unable to consider any
affairs of business, and the management of the estate remained as it
had done for the last two years in the hands of our excellent agent,
Mr. Baker.

But one evening in the early part of December he sent Raffaelle about
nine o'clock, saying he wished to speak to me. I went to his room, and
without any warning he began at once, "You never show me my boy now,
Sophy; he must be grown a big child, and I should like to see him."
Much startled by so unexpected a remark, I replied that the child was
at Royston under the care of Mrs. Temple, but