LITMIR.BIZ

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to die,

            That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.”

CHAUCER.

      That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face watching him attentively.

      “Papa! What’s the matter?” said he, starting up. “Is any one ill?”

      “No; no one, lie down again,” said Dr. May, possessing himself of a hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse.

      “But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been talking?”

      “Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.”

      “But I’m not ill—what are you feeling my pulse for?” said Norman uneasily.

      “To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.”

      Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked, “What o’clock is it?”

      “A little after twelve.”

      “What does make you stay up so late, papa?”

      “I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done all I want.”

      “Pray don’t stay here in the cold,” said Norman, with feverish impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow. “Good-night!”

      “No hurry,” said his father, still watching him.

      “There’s nothing the matter,” repeated the boy.

      “Do you often have such unquiet nights?”

      “Oh, it does not signify. Good-night,” and he tried to look settled and comfortable.

      “Norman,” said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, “it will not do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close yourself against her.”

      Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: “It is no good saying it—I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that’s it. I cannot bear the being without her.”

      Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation, as Norman hid his face under the coverings.

      “My poor boy,” said he, hardly able to speak, “only One can comfort you truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for you, though it is not the same.”

      “I thought it would grieve you more,” said Norman, turning his face towards him again.

      “What, to find my children, feeling with me, and knowing what they have lost? Surely not, Norman.”

      “And it is of no use,” added Norman, hiding his face again, “no one can comfort—”

      “There you are wrong,” said Dr. May, with deep feeling, “there is much comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake with such talk: I saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the matter.”

      “I did not know it,” said Norman, “I really believe I am well, if I could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.”

      “Ay, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer I could get was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it at all. As if I asked for his sake! How fast that boy sleeps—he is fit for a midshipman’s berth!”

      “But do you think there is anything amiss with me?”

      “I shall know more about that to-morrow morning. Come to my room as soon as you are up, unless I come to you. Now, I have something to read before I go to bed, and I may as well try if it will put you to sleep.”

      Norman’s last sight that night was of the outline of his father’s profile, and he was scarcely awake the next morning before Dr. May was there again.

      Unwilling as he had been to give way, it was a relief to relinquish the struggle to think himself well, and to venture to lounge and dawdle, rest his heavy head, and stretch his inert limbs without fear of remark. His father found him after breakfast lying on the sofa in the drawing-room with a Greek play by his side, telling Ethel what words to look out.

      “At it again!” exclaimed Dr. May. “Carry it away, Ethel. I will have no Latin or Greek touched these holidays.”

      “You know,” said Norman, “if I don’t sap, I shall have no chance of keeping up.”

      “You’ll keep nowhere if you don’t rest.”

      “It is only Euripides, and I can’t do anything else,” said Norman languidly.

      “Very likely, I don’t care. You have to get well first of all, and the Greek will take care of itself. Go up to Margaret. I put you in her keeping, while I am gone to Whitford. After that, I dare say Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you drive me to Abbotstoke.”

      Norman rose, and wearily walked upstairs, while his sister lingered to excuse herself. “Papa, I did not think Euripides would hurt him—he knows it all so well, and he said he could not read anything else.”

      “Just so, Ethel. Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for anything: his mind was forced into those classicalities when it wanted rest, and now it has not spring enough to turn back again.”

      “Do you think him so very ill?”

      “Not exactly, but there’s low fever hanging about him, and we must look after him well, and I hope we may get him right. I have told Margaret about him; I can’t stop any longer now.”

      Norman found the baby in his sister’s room, and this was just what suited him. The Daisy showed a marked preference for her brothers; and to find her so merry and good with him, pleased and flattered him far more than his victory at school. He carried her about, danced her, whistled to her, and made her admire her pretty blue eyes in the glass most successfully, till nurse carried her off. But perhaps he had been sent up rather too soon, for as he sat in the great chair by the fire, he was teased by the constant coming and going, all the petty cares of a large household transacted by Margaret—orders to butcher and cook—Harry racing in to ask to take Tom to the river—Tom, who was to go when his lesson was done, coming perpetually to try to repeat the same unhappy bit of ‘As in Proesenti’, each time in a worse whine.

      “How can you bear it, Margaret?” said Norman, as she finally dismissed Tom, and laid down her account-book, taking up some delicate fancy work. “Mercy, here’s another,” as enter a message about lamp oil, in the midst of which Mary burst in to beg Margaret to get Miss Winter to let her go to the river with Harry and Tom.

      “No, indeed, Mary, I could not think of such a thing. You had better go back to your lessons, and don’t be silly,” as she looked much disposed to cry.

      “No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it,” added Norman; and Mary departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of weariness, and said, as she returned to her work, “There, I believe I have done. I hope I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was rather too much to ask.”

      “I can’t think how you can help being cross to every one,” said Norman, as he took away the books she had done with.

      “I am afraid I am,” said Margaret sadly. “It does get trying at times.”

      “I should think so! This eternal worrying must be more than any one can bear, always lying there too.”

      “It is only now and then that it grows tiresome,” said Margaret. “I am too happy to be of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but sometimes a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a little change would be such a treat.”

      “Aren’t you very tired of lying in bed?”

      “Yes, very, sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I could move better

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