he room in which they had
placed the stricken man. He lay across the bed in his clothes, just as
he had fallen. They bathed his forehead and applied leeches to his
temples. He breathed heavily, but gave no sign of consciousness.

Paul sat at his father's side with his face buried in his hands. He was
recalling his boyish days, when his father would lift him in his arms
and throw him on the bare back of the pony that he gave him on his
thirteenth birthday. Could it be possible that the end was at hand!

He got up and led Greta out of the room.

"This house of mourning is no place for you," he said; "the storm is
over: you must leave us; Natt can put the mare into the trap and drive
you home."

"I will not go," said Greta; "this shall be my home to-night. Don't send
me away from you, Paul. You are in trouble, and my place is here."

"You could do no good, and might take some harm."

Mrs. Ritson came out.

"Where is Mr. Bonnithorne?" she asked. "He was to be here at eight. Your
father might recover consciousness."

"The lawyer could do nothing to help him."

"If he is to leave us, may it please God to give him one little hour of
consciousness."

"Yes, knowing us again--giving us a farewell word."

"There is another reason--a more terrible reason!"

"You are thinking of the will. Let that go by. Come, mother--and Greta,
too--- come, let us go back."

Half an hour later the house was as still as the chamber of death. With
hushed voices and noiseless steps the women-servants moved to and from
the room where lay the dying man. The farming men sat together in an
outer kitchen, and talked in whispers.

The storm had passed away; the stars struggled one by one through a rack
of flying cloud, and a silver fringe of moonlight sometimes fretted the
black patches of the sky.

Hugh Ritson sat alone in the old hall, that was now desolate enough. His
face rested on his hand, and his elbow on his knee. There was a strange
light in his eyes. It was not sorrow, and it was not pain; it was
anxiety, uncertainty, perturbation. Again and again he started up from a
deep reverie, and then a half-smothered cry escaped him. He walked a few
paces to and fro, and sat down once more.

A servant crossed the hall on tiptoe. Hugh raised his head.

"How is your patient now?" he said, quietly.

"Just breathing, sir; still quite unconscious."

Hugh got up uneasily. A mirror hung on the wall in front of him, and he
stood and looked v