“No, no, I am not,” said Mr. Tupman. “I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm.” He added, in a whisper, “Oh, Miss Rachael!” The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.

“Are you faint?” inquired the anxious Rachael.

“No,” said Mr. Tupman. “It is nothing. I shall be better presently.” He closed his eyes.

“He sleeps,” murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been closed nearly twenty seconds.) “Dear⁠—dear⁠— Mr. Tupman!”