badly--I have been so
cruel--he is very ill, I fear--bring water, brandy--" and he returned
with all speed into the room. Mr Bradshaw--the great, strong, iron
man--lay back in his chair in a swoon, a fit.

"Fetch my mother, Mary. Send for the doctor, Elizabeth," said Jemima,
rushing to her father. She and Mr Benson did all in their power to
restore him. Mrs Bradshaw forgot all her vows of estrangement from
the dead-like husband, who might never speak to her, or hear her
again, and bitterly accused herself for every angry word she had
spoken against him during these last few miserable days.

Before the doctor came, Mr Bradshaw had opened his eyes and partially
rallied, although he either did not, or could not speak. He looked
struck down into old age. His eyes were sensible in their expression,
but had the dim glaze of many years of life upon them. His lower jaw
fell from his upper one, giving a look of melancholy depression to
the face, although the lips hid the unclosed teeth. But he answered
correctly (in monosyllables, it is true) all the questions which the
doctor chose to ask. And the medical man was not so much impressed
with the serious character of the seizure as the family, who knew
all the hidden mystery behind, and had seen their father lie for the
first time with the precursor aspect of death upon his face. Rest,
watching, and a little medicine were what the doctor prescribed; it
was so slight a prescription, for what had appeared to Mr Benson so
serious an attack, that he wished to follow the medical man out of
the room to make further inquiries, and learn the real opinion which
he thought must lurk behind. But as he was following the doctor,
he--they all--were aware of the effort Mr Bradshaw was making to
rise, in order to arrest Mr Benson's departure. He did stand up,
supporting himself with one hand on the table, for his legs shook
under him. Mr Benson came back instantly to the spot where he was.
For a moment it seemed as if he had not the right command of his
voice: but at last he said, with a tone of humble, wistful entreaty,
which was very touching:

"He is alive, sir; is he not?"

"Yes, sir--indeed he is; he is only hurt. He is sure to do well. Mr
Farquhar is with him," said Mr Benson, almost unable to speak for
tears.

Mr Bradshaw did not remove his eyes from Mr Benson's face for more
than a minute after his question had been answered. He seemed as
though he would read his very soul, and the