egan to sob again, and
pressed past me, sinking down on the chair by his side, and laying her
hand upon one of his pillows.

"Julia, my love," he continued, feebly, "you know how I have wronged
you; but you are a true Christian. You will forgive your uncle when he
is dead and gone. I should like to be buried in Guernsey with the other
Dobrees."

Neither did Julia answer, save by sobs. I stepped toward the window to
draw up the blinds, but he stopped me, speaking in a much stronger voice
than before.

"Leave them alone," he said. "I have no wish to see the light of day. A
dishonored man does not care to show his face. I have seen no one since
I left Guernsey, except Collas."

"I think you are alarming yourself needlessly," I answered. "You know
you are fidgety about your own health. Let me prescribe for you. Surely
I know as much as Collas."

"No, no, let me die," he said, plaintively; "then you can all be happy.
I have robbed my only brother's only child, who was dear to me as my own
daughter. I cannot hold up my head after that. I should die gladly if
you two were but reconciled to one another."

By this time Julia's hand had reached his, and was resting in it fondly.
I never knew a man gifted with such power over women and their
susceptibilities as he had. My mother herself would appear to forget all
her unhappiness, if he only smiled upon her.

"My poor dear Julia!" he murmured; "my poor child!"

"Uncle," she said, checking her sobs by a great effort, "if you imagine
I should tell any one--Johanna Carey even--what you have done, you wrong
me. The name of Dobree is as dear to me as to Martin, and he was willing
to marry a woman he detested in order to shield it. No, you are quite
safe from disgrace as far as I am concerned."

"God in heaven bless you, my own Julia!" he ejaculated, fervently. "I
knew your noble nature; but it grieves me the more deeply that I have so
thoughtlessly wronged you. If I should live to get over this illness, I
will explain it all to you. It is not so bad as it seems. But will you
not be equally generous to Martin? Cannot you forgive him as you do me?"

"Uncle," she cried, "I could never, never marry a man who says he loves
some one else more than me."

Her face was hidden in the pillows, and my father stroked her head,
glancing at me contemptuously at the same time.

"I should think not, my girl!" he said, in a soothing tone; "but Martin
will very soon repent. He is a fool jus