ective had gone in search, and who, if captured,
would be certainly overwhelmed with contumely, if not with
punishment,--whether or not that strange creature was Julius's father,
or any relation at all of Julius. He was not clear how he could well put
the matter to Julius, since he so evidently shrank from discourse upon
it, yet he thought some kind of certainty might be arrived at from an
interview with him. On the chance of his having returned to his
chambers, he called for pen and paper and wrote a note, asking him to
look in, as he would be resting all day. "Try to come," he urged; "I
have something important to speak about."

This he sent by the trusty hand of his man in black; and by mid-day
Julius was announced. He came in confident, and bright as sunshine
(Lefevre thought he had never seen him looking more serene); but
suddenly the sunshine was beclouded, and Julius ceased to be himself,
and became a restless, timorous kind of creature, like a bird put in a
cage under the eye of his captor.

"What?" he cried when he entered, with an eloquent gesture. "Lazying in
bed on such a day as this? What does this mean?" But when he observed
the pallor and weakness of Lefevre's appearance, he paused abruptly,
refrained from the hand stretched out to greet him, and exclaimed in a
tone of something like terror, "Good heavens! Are you ill?" A paleness,
a shudder, and a dizziness passed upon him as if he sickened. "May I,"
he said, "open the window?"

"Certainly, Julius," said Lefevre, in surprise and alarm. "Do you feel
ill?"

"No--no," said Julius from the window, where he stood letting the air
play upon his face, and speaking as if he had to put considerable
restraint upon himself. "I--I am unfortunately, miserably constituted: I
cannot help it. I cannot bear the sight of illness, or lowness of health
even. It appals me; it--it horrifies me with a quite instinctive horror;
it deadens me."

Lefevre, whose abundant sympathy and vitality went out instinctively to
succour and bless the weak and the ill, was inexpressibly shocked and
offended by this confession of what to his sense appeared selfish
cowardice and inhumanity. He had again and again heard it said, and he
had with pleasure assented to the opinion, that Julius was a rare,
finely-strung being, with such pure and glowing health that he shrank
from contact with, or from the sight of, pain or ill-health, and even
from their discussion; but now that the singularity