uch things, but the inflammation appears to have
culminated that way. Now either she will never wake again, or if she
wakes she may live. At least that is what they tell me, but they may be
wrong. I have so often known doctors to be wrong."

They walked on together in silence twenty yards or more. Then he added
as though speaking to himself:

"When we reach the top of Gunter's Hill perhaps we shall learn. We can
see her window from there, and if she had passed away I bade them pull
the blind down; if she was about the same, to pull it half down, and if
she were really better, to leave it quite up. I have done that for two
nights now, so that I might have a little time to prepare myself. It is
a good plan, though very trying to a father's heart. Yesterday I stood
for quite a while with my eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to look
and learn the truth."

Anthony groaned, and once more the old man went on:

"She is a very unselfish girl, Barbara, or perhaps I should say
was, perhaps I should say was. That is how she caught this horrible
inflammation. Three weeks ago she and her sister Janey went for a long
walk to the Ness, to--to--oh! I forget why they went. Well, it came on
to pour with rain; and just as they had started for home, fortunately,
or rather unfortunately, old Stevens the farmer overtook them on his
way back from market and offered them a lift. They got into the cart
and Barbara took off the mackintosh that her aunt gave her last
Christmas--it is the only one in the house, since such things are too
costly for me to buy--and put it over Janey, who had a cold. It was
quite unnecessary, for Janey was warmly wrapped up, while Barbara had
nothing under the mackintosh except a summer dress. That is how she
caught the chill."

Anthony made no comment, and again they walked forward without speaking,
perhaps for a quarter of a mile. Then the horror of the suspense became
intolerable to him. Without a word he dashed forward, sped down the
slope and up that of the opposing Gunter's Hill, more swiftly perhaps
than he had ever run before, although he was a very quick runner.

"He's gone," murmured Septimus. "I wonder why! I suppose that I walk too
slowly for him. I cannot walk so fast as I used to do, and he felt the
wind cold."

Then he dismissed the matter from his half-dazed mind and stumbled on
wearily, muttering his disjointed prayers.

Thus in due course he began to climb the little slope of Gunter's Hi