CHAPTER VIII. "Time's hand will turn again, and what he ruins To hold our heads up." MASSINGER. OCTOBER is passed-and November has begun-wet and cold. Mr. Aveley's health is much worse; he coughs, his breathing is bad, his pulse too quick. In how few words can the doom of our climate be written! Harriet will not know that, as surely as winter follows autumn, so surely is her father's fate sealed. He has not again spoken to her of his brother, but she is aware that he has written to him. She is just now calculating the months which must elapse before there can be an answer to his letter, and she asks if he really would try the voyage to India, should Colonel Aveley's reply be favourable. He smilingly gives her to understand that the means of going must be transmitted to him before he could decide; that his present inability to meet the expenses of the voyage makes it useless to discuss the question. "But, Harriet," he added, "I have written to my brother describing exactly my circumstances. You have thought, perhaps, from the lonely independence of my life, that I was too proud to take such a step. No, my love!-I am not so. Do not suppose that I should rather rejoice in bestowing a fortune on my brother, than in receiving one from him-the more generous feeling is satisfaction in his being able to serve meI have no distrust of his desire to do so. We do wrong in regarding with indifference the ties of kindred; unfortunately, something in our national character-a fear of being too demonstrative in our affections, a pride in a self-maintained, unaided existence-makes us give less proof of the influence of relationship over us than we ought to do. I have not been humiliated by applying to my brother-I shall not be humiliated by his aid. Remember this, when-when❞—he could not what he wished-"I am gone.' say Her countenance, during his words, expressed so much distress for him, that he feared to pain her by what might make her more fully understand to what all this tended-not, alas! not to what his brother would ever do for him. Another time, he thought to himself, “I shall say more on this subject, having now made an opening for it." He took up a book, and in a few minutes was engaged in reading with his usual interest. Half-an-hour afterwards, however, he laid aside his volume, and talked to her of what he had read with animation, criticising it with talent and originality. All at once his voice failed him; he could scarcely raise it above a whisper, and he breathed with difficulty. "I was imprudent in going out to-day; I have caught cold,—that is all, my love— nothing more," he said, in reply to her anxious enquiries; then he added, "I am a little faint-open the window." She did what he desired; the cold, damp wind passed over his face and it revived him. He said he felt better, much better-quite well; but still he remained leaning back in his easy chair, in a position indicating extreme exhaustion. A dread which she dared not allow to take any definite form—a horror of she knew not what-made her heart stand still. But she recovered quickly from her alarm, and derided herself for having given way to it. Yet, to make assurance doubly sure of their being nothing to fear, she stepped into the kitchen and desired their maid to go to the village for the doctor. On her return to the parlour, her father declared, very cheerfully, but very feebly, that he was certainly better-nay, quite well-and he begged her to take her work. This she could not do, for she could not turn her eyes away from him, and she occupied herself in performing any little service which would at all contribute to his ease. He thanked her repeatedly, said that all she did was good and right, and he entreated her once more to sit down. "But not just opposite me, my darling," he added, and he closed his eyes. She thought he might be dropping asleep; she slipped softly round behind him, and resting one hand on the back of his chair, stood so still that marble never looked more fixed, more breathless. If in her mind a thought took any form of words, it was but |