tside. Quietly she relinquished her place beside the
bed, and as she did so she bent down and kissed the poor old hand,
that wandered so restlessly along the folds of the quilt.

As Sir Thomas entered the room, she was just leaving it. They met
under the lintel of the door.

"He seems stronger," she whispered pointing to the sick man. "I think
that he will make an effort--for Luke's sake."

She waited a moment in the door-way, until she saw Sir Thomas Ryder
installed on one side of the bed, and the doctor on the other side,
with his finger on the patient's pulse. Then she retreated into the
morning room, and moved by some unaccountable impulses she went to
the piano and opening it, she sat down, and with exquisite softness
began to play the opening bars of one of her favourite songs.

She sang hardly above a whisper: the velvety tones of her voice
sounded like the murmur of ghosts through the heavy tapestries of the
room. Whenever her voice died away in the intervals of the song she
could hear the hum of men's voices, her uncle's low and clear, now and
then a word from the doctor, and through it all the voice of the sick
man, feeble and distinct, speaking the words that would mean life to
Luke.

CHAPTER XL

AND THUS HER HOUR HAD COME

Half an hour had gone by. The fountain pen dropped from Sir Thomas's
cramped fingers.

He had been writing, slowly but incessantly, ever since he sat down
beside the sick man, and put his first question to him. Lord
Radclyffe, with the tenacity peculiar to a strong nature, had clung to
his own strength and will power and had spoken clearly, so that Sir
Thomas could not only understand but could write down what he heard,
word for word--not omitting a phrase--accurately and succinctly.

Once or twice Doctor Newington had to interfere. The patient was in
danger of exhaustion, and brandy had again to be administered. Lord
Radclyffe took it eagerly. What will power he had left was
concentrated on the desire to keep up his strength.

From the boudoir came the gentle murmur of a tender song, whispered by
Louisa's appealing contralto voice. The sick man seemed to enjoy it:
it seemed to soothe him too, for every now and again he lay quite
still and listened attentively: and when he did so his eyes always
sought the portrait of Luke.

When all was finished, and the last word written, Sir Thomas rose and
grasped his old friend's emaciated hand.

"You'll feel better to-morrow,"