“What’s the matter, Hugh?”
Dr. Chichester flung the question suddenly into the deep silence which had fallen on himself and his son, as they sat together by the study fire on a cold night shortly after Christmas.
They had done a little talking.
Dr. Chichester had said it was a bitter night, and Hugh had assented¹. The doctor had remarked that a fire and a book were wonderfully soothing² after a long day’s work, and Hugh had owned the fact. The doctor had opined that if the frost lasted, there would shortly be skating on the Serpentine³. Hugh had agreed to that as well, but in so absent and spiritless a manner that his father plainly saw he took no interest whatever in the skating prospects⁴ at the present moment.
And after these attempts at conversation, silence had fallen on them, and the doctor,
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 forgetful of the book upon his knee, closely scrutinised the young face before him, with its dark, sad eyes fixed⁵ on the glowing fire.
Hugh had been curiously⁶ silent ever since that visit to Donisbro’, his father thought to himself.
And yet, how pleased he had been at being singled out by Sir Anthony to go with him! And he had come back, having done everything required of him successfully enough, so far as his father could make out. But he had been very uncommunicative over his adventures in the quaint⁷ cathedral city.
It had been left for Sir Anthony to catch the doctor on the staircase of Blue-friars’ Hospital, and ask him if “the boy had remembered to tell his father that Sir Anthony had said he was a credit to the medical profession.” Hugh had not even mentioned the great man’s rare commendation.
What had he said about that visit? The doctor went over in his own mind the rather bald account which the united efforts of the family had with difficulty pumped out.
Yes, Hugh had seen Sydney. She was looking very well—this in answer to a question from Mrs. Chichester. She had sent her love to them all. There hadn’t been much time;

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