As they sat waiting for him in the oak-panelled dining-room, a fresh wave of pity swept over Elisabeth as she realized for the first time--though she had sat there over and over again--what a cheerless home this was in which to spend one's childhood and youth, and how pluckily Christopher had always made the best of things, and had never confessed--even to her--what a dreary lot was his.

Then he came downstairs; and as she heard his familiar footstep crossing the hall her heart beat faster than ever, and there was a mist before her eyes; but when he entered the room and shook hands, first with Miss Farringdon and then with her, she was quite surprised to see that he looked very much as he always looked, only his face was pale and his eyes heavy for want of sleep; and his smile was as kind as ever as it lighted upon her.
"It is very good of you to come to me so quickly," he said, addressing Miss Farringdon but looking at Elisabeth.
"Not at all, Christopher," replied Miss Maria; "those who have friends must show themselves friendly, and your uncle has certainly proved himself of the sort that sticketh closer than a brother.

No son could have done more for my father--no brother could have done more for me--than he has done; and therefore his affliction is my affliction, and his loss is my loss." "You are very kind." And Christopher's voice shook a little.
Elisabeth did not speak.

She was struggling with a feeling of uncontrollable shyness which completely tied her usually fluent tongue.
"Is he very ill ?" Miss Farringdon asked.
"Yes," Christopher replied, "I'm afraid it's a bad job altogether.

The doctor thinks he will last only a few days; but if he lives he will never regain the use of his speech or of his brain; and I don't know that life under such conditions is a boon to be desired." "I do not think it is.