A dead calm seemed
to have settled upon it. I took his hand; it was cold. I pressed his
forehead; it was cold also. 'Henry, my son, how are you?' I asked.
He did not reply; but looked in my face with a cold, steady gaze
that chilled me. 'Are you sick, my son?' He merely shook his head
slowly. 'Has anything happened? What has happened?' I pressed my
question upon him; but it was of no use. He would not satisfy me. I
then asked if he would not rise. 'Not yet,' he said. 'Shall I bring
you some breakfast?' 'No--no--I cannot eat.' And he shook his head
and shut his eyes, while there came into his face a look so sad and
suffering that as I gazed on him I could not keep the tears back.
"And it has been no better with him all the day, Doctor," added Mrs.
Wallingford, heaving a long sigh. "Oh, I am distressed to death
about it. Won't you come and see him? I'm afraid if something isn't
done that he will lose his senses."
"Have you no conjecture as to the cause of this strange condition of
mind?" I asked.
"None," she replied. "Henry is a reserved young man, you know,
Doctor; and keeps many things hidden in his mind even from me that
should be outspoken.
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