s bed with closed eyes. His shirt, above the breast,
was reeking with blood.

"The doctor should be sent for," said Uncle John.

"He'll be here soon, for one of the stable boys rode to fetch him. But
I thought you ought to know at once, sir."

"Quite right, Donald."

As they stood there the wounded man moved and opened his eyes, looking
from one to the other of them wonderingly. Finally he smiled.

"Ah, it's Donald," he said.

"Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John."

"Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight
shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old,
somehow."

"It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old,
sooner or later."

The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more
carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. Finally he
sighed.

"The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't
always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick,
Donald?"

"Yes, lad. You're sick now."

The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent.

"Do you think he's sane?" whispered Uncle John.

"I do, sir. He's sane for the first time in years."

James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the
damp from his forehead.

"About Master Tom," he said, falteringly. "Master Tom's dead, ain't
he?"

"Yes, Jeemes."

"That was real, then, an' no dream. I mind it all, now--the shriek of
the whistle, the crash, and the screams of the dying. Have I told you
about it, Donald?"

"No, lad."

"It all happened before we knew it. I was on one side the car and
Master Tom on the other. My side was on top, when I came to myself,
and Master Tom was buried in the rubbish. God knows how I got him out,
but I did. Donald, the poor master's side was crushed in, and both
legs splintered. I knew at once he was dying, when I carried him to
the grass and laid him down; and he knew it, too. Yes, the master knew
he was done; and him so young and happy, and just about to be married
to--to--the name escapes me, lad!"

His voice sank to a low mumble, and he closed his eyes wearily.

The watchers at his side stood still and waited. It might be that
death had overtaken the poor fellow. But no; he moved again, and
opened his eyes, continuing his speech in a stronger tone.

"It was hard work to get the paper for Master Tom," he said; "but he
swore he must have it before he died.