of that I feel quite certain."

"I suspect you are right," said Upton, bending over his teacup; "and
_our_ part, in consequence, is one of considerable delicacy; for until
Glencore alludes to what has passed, _we_ of course, can take no notice
of it. The boy is ill; he is in a fever: we know nothing more."

"I'll leave you to deal with the father; the son shall be my care. I
have told Traynor to be ready to start with me after breakfast, and have
ordered two stout ponies for the journey. I conclude there will be no
objection in detaining the doctor for the night: what think you, Upton?"

"Do _you_ consult the doctor on that head; meanwhile, I 'll pay a visit
to Glencore. I 'll meet you in the library." And so saying, Upton rose,
and gracefully draping the folds of his dressing-gown, and arranging the
waving lock of hair which had escaped beneath his cap, he slowly set out
towards the sick man's chamber.

Of all the springs of human action, there was not one in which Sir
Horace Upton sympathized so little as passion. That any man could adopt
a line of conduct from which no other profit could result than what
might minister to a feeling of hatred, jealousy, or revenge, seemed to
him utterly contemptible. It was not, indeed, the morality of such a
course that he called in question, although he would not have contested
that point. It was its meanness, its folly, its insufficiency. His
experience of great affairs had imbued him with all the importance that
was due to temper and moderation. He scarcely remembered an instant
where a false move had damaged a negotiation that it could not be traced
to some passing trait of impatience, or some lurking spirit of animosity
biding the hour of its gratification.

He had long learned to perceive how much more temperament has to do, in
the management of great events, than talent or capacity, and his opinion
of men was chiefly founded on this quality of their nature. It was,
then, with an almost pitying estimate of Glenoore that he now entered
the room where the sick man lay.

Anxious to be alone with him, Glenoore had dismissed all the attendants
from his room, and sat, propped up by pillows, eagerly awaiting his
approach.

Upton moved through the dimly lighted room like one familiar to the
atmosphere of illness, and took his seat beside the bed with that
noiseless quiet which in _him_ was a kind of instinct.

It was several minutes before Glencore spoke, and then, in a low, fa