Mayne's face was so pale, despite its blackness, that she was moved to
instant pity.

"Oh, Richard, what is it?" she said, hurrying to him, "My dear, you
must not take it to heart in this way." And she took his forehead
between her hands and kissed it with the old tenderness she had once
felt for him, when they, too, had lived and worked for each other, and
there was no Master Dick to plague them and rule over his mother's
heart.

"Bessie, that boy will be the death of me," he groaned. But,
notwithstanding the despondency of these words, the comfort of his
wife's presence was visibly felt, and by and by he suffered her to
coax the truth from him.

CHAPTER XLIV.

MR. MAYNE ORDERS A BASIN OF GRUEL.

On the following morning Mr. Mayne did open his lips to address a word
to his son:

"I shall be obliged to you, Dick, if you will postpone your intended
visit to town, for this day at least;" for Dick had an "ABC" beside
him, and was picking out a fast train while he ate his breakfast.

"All right," replied Dick: "I can wait another four-and-twenty hours."
But though he yielded the point graciously enough, he did not look at
his father, or say anything more on the subject; and as soon as his
appetite was satisfied, he took up the "Times," and lounged into his
den. Shortly afterwards they heard him whistling to his dogs, and knew
that he would not appear until luncheon.

Mrs. Mayne wished that her husband would follow his example; but he
had put on his slippers, and showed no inclination to leave the
fireside. He read his paper and dozed a good deal, and snapped up
Bessie if she spoke to him: so, on the whole, Mrs. Mayne had rather a
dull morning. When the luncheon-bell rang, he chose to put on invalid
airs, and ordered a basin of gruel to be brought to him in the
library. Mrs. Mayne who knew he was not ill, and that his
indisposition was purely mental and imaginary, was yet wise enough to
fall in with his whim.

"Your master would like his gruel nicely flavored, James," she said to
the footman. "Please ask Mrs. Simpkins to prepare it in the way he
likes." And then she placed his favorite little table beside him, and
stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze.

"Your father does not feel himself well enough to come in to luncheon,
Dick," she said to her son, probably for the benefit of the servant,
who was waiting to remove the covers; and Dick, for the same reason,
testified a proper amount of sympathy.