r. The
coachman stood at the carriage door.

"Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy."

"Yes, miss," replied the man, as he ran down the steps.

The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out Gabriel.

They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch.
Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity, but he said in a loud
voice,

"It's all a conspiracy to get into the house, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. I'll
have bull-dogs--I'll have blunderbusses and spring-guns, Mrs. Simcoe,
ma'am! And what do you mean by fighting at my gate, Sir?" he said,
turning upon Little Malacca, who quivered under his wrath. "What are you
doing at my gate? Can't Mr. Gray keep his boys at home? Hope, go up
stairs!" said the old gentleman, as he reached the foot of the staircase.

But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient. Hope rubbed
the boy's hands, and put her own hand upon his forehead from time to
time, until he sighed heavily and opened his eyes. But before he could
recognize her she went out to send Hiram to him, while Mrs. Simcoe sat
quietly by him.

"We must put you to bed," she said, gently, "and to-morrow you may go.
But why do you fight?"

Gabriel turned toward her with a piteous look.

"No matter," replied Mrs. Simcoe. "Don't talk. You shall tell all about
it some other time. Come in, Hiram," she added, as she heard a knock.

The man entered, and Mrs. Simcoe left the room after having told him
to undress the boy carefully and bathe his face and hands. Gabriel was
perfectly passive, Hiram was silent, quick, and careful, and in a few
moments he closed the door softly behind him, and left Gabriel alone.

He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face was turned toward
the window, which was open, and he watched the pine-trees that rustled
gently in the afternoon breeze. It was profoundly still out of doors and
in the house; and as he lay exhausted, the events of the last few days
and months swam through his mind in misty confusion. Half-dozing,
half-sleeping, every thing glimmered before him, and the still hours
stole by.

When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he was lying on his
back looking up at the heavy tester of the great bedstead from which hung
the curtains, so that he had only glimpses into the chamber. It was large
and lofty, and the paper on the wall told the story of Telemachus. His
eyes wandered over it dreamily.

He could dimly see the