CHAPTER XV.
THE FATHER FINDS HIS HEART FOR EVER.
He had been at death's door, sinking out of life, because he had nothing now to live for.

He still was very weak in bed, faint, and worn, and white, propped up with pillows--that poor, bereaved old man.

Ever since Lady Dillaway's most quiet death he had felt alone in the world.

True, while she lived she had seemed to him a mere tranquil trouble, a useless complacent piece of furniture, often in his way; but now that she was dead, what a void was left where she had been--mere empty space, cold and death-like.

She had left him quite alone.
Then again--of John, poor John, he would think, and think continually--not about the little vulgar pock-marked man of 'change, the broker, the rogue, the coward--but of a happy curly child, with sparkling eyes--a merry-hearted, ruddy little fellow, romping with his sister--ay, in this very room; here is the identical China vase he broke, all riveted up; there is the corner where he would persist to nestle his dormice.