ll of his own hidden up in
the delicate framework of his body, and resembled his father at least in
this, that his outer man was too narrow a tenement for what it
contained. Almost at the first flash of the light his big black eyes
opened, and he started to a sitting posture, bewildered, scared.

"Oh! why, hullo, Armstrong! what's the matter?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Roger, but--"

The boy bounded out of bed and stood facing his tutor in his night-
dress.

"But I want you to dress as sharp as you can. Your father is unwell."

"Unwell?" repeated the boy, shivering. "You do not mean he is dead?"

"No--no; but ill. He has had a stroke. Dr Brandram is with him. I
thought it better not to wait till the morning before fetching you."

"Mother--does she know?"

"By this time."

"Why ever did we not go back?" groaned the boy. "Is there _any_ hope,
Armstrong?"

"Some--yes. Go to your mother and tell her so. The carriage will be
ready in five minutes."

In five minutes the boy and his mother descended to the hall, where
already their host and hostess were down to bid them farewell. It was
difficult to imagine that the slender dark-eyed handsome woman, who
stood there and looked round for a moment so white and trembling and
bewildered, was really the mother of the young man on whose arm she
leant. Even under a blow such as this Mrs Ingleton belied her age by a
decade. She was still on the sunny side of forty. You and I might have
doubted if she was yet thirty.

Captain Curtice and his wife had the true kindness to attempt no words
as they sympathisingly bade their visitors farewell. When the hall-door
opened and let in the cold blast, the poor lady staggered a moment and
clung closer to her son's side. Then abandoning composure to the wintry
winds, she found her best refuge in tears, and let herself be led to the
carriage.

The tutor helped to put her in, and looked inquiringly at his pupil.

"Come in too, please," said the latter; "there is room inside."

Mr Armstrong would fain have taken his seat beside Robbins on the box.
He hated scenes, and tears, and tragedies of all sorts. But there was
something in his pupil's voice which touched him. He took his place
within, and prayed that the moments might fly till they reached
Maxfield.

Scarcely a word was spoken. Once Roger hazarded a question, but it was
the signal for a new outburst on his mother's part; and he wisely
desisted, and leant