happened to the light? How dark it was!

"Where am I?" he said, looking up blindly into the face above him.

"I found you here--on the moor--lying on the grass. Are you better?
Shall I run down now--and fetch some one?"

"Don't go--"

The agony returned. When Sir Arthur spoke again, it was very feebly.

"I can't live--through--much more of that. I'm dying. Don't leave me.
Where's my son? Where's my son--Douglas? Who are you?"

The glazing eyes tried to make out the features of the stranger. They
were too dim to notice the sudden shiver that passed through them as he
named his son.

"I can't get at any one. I've been calling for a long time. My name is
Radowitz. I'm staying at Penfold Rectory. If I could only carry you! I
tried to lift you--but I couldn't. I've only one hand." He pointed
despairingly to the sling he was wearing.

"Tell my son--tell Douglas--"

But the faint voice ceased abruptly, and the eyes closed. Only there was
a slight movement of the lips, which Radowitz, bending his ear to the
mouth of the dying man, tried to interpret. He thought it said "pray,"
but he could not be sure.

Radowitz looked round him in an anguish. No one on the purple side of
the moor, no one on the grassy tracks leading downwards to the park;
only the wide gold of the evening--the rising of a light wind--the
rustling of the fern--and the loud, laboured breathing below him.

He bent again over the helpless form, murmuring words in haste.

* * * * *

Meanwhile after Sir Arthur left the house, Douglas had been urgently
summoned by his mother. He found her at tea with Trix in her own
sitting-room. Roger was away, staying with a school friend, to the
general relief of the household; Nelly, the girl of seventeen, was with
relations in Scotland, but Trix had become her mother's little shadow
and constant companion. The child was very conscious of the weight on
her parents' minds. Her high spirits had all dropped. She had a wistful,
shrinking look, which suited ill with her round face and her childishly
parted lips over her small white teeth. The little face was made for
laughter; but in these days only Douglas could bring back her smiles,
because mamma was so unhappy and cried so much; and that mamma should
cry seemed to bring her whole world tumbling about the child's ears.
Only Douglas, for sheer impatience with the general gloom of the house,
would sometimes tease her or chase her; and the