The next morning, neither Darrell nor Fairthorn appeared at breakfast;
but as soon as Lionel had concluded that meal, Mr. Mills informed him,
with customary politeness, that Mr. Darrell wished to speak with him in
the study. Study, across the threshold of which Lionel had never yet set
footstep! He entered it now with a sentiment of mingled curiosity and
awe. Nothing in it remarkable, save the portrait of the host's father
over the mantelpiece. Books strewed tables, chairs, and floors in the
disorder loved by habitual students. Near the window was a glass bowl
containing gold-fish, and close by, in its cage, a singing-bird. Darrell
might exist without companionship in the human species, but not without
something which he protected and cherished,--a bird, even a fish.

Darrell looked really ill: his keen eye was almost dim, and the lines in
his face seemed deeper. But he spoke with his usual calm, passionless
melody of voice.

"Yes," he said, in answer to Lionel's really anxious inquiry; "I am ill.
Idle persons like me give way to illness. When I was a busy man, I never
did; and then illness gave way to me. My general plans are thus, if not
actually altered, at least hurried to their consummation sooner than I
expected. Before you came here, I told you to come soon, or you might
not find me. I meant to go abroad this summer; I shall now start at
once. I need the change of scene and air. You will return to London
to-day."

"To-day! You are not angry with me?"

"Angry! boy and cousin--no!" resumed Darrell, in a tone of unusual
tenderness. "Angry-fie! But since the parting must be, 't is well to
abridge the pain of long farewell. You must wish, too, to see your