y manner, with some unfinished food, hardly tasted,
upon it.

She said apologetically, "You see, sir, it's hard work to keep things
in order, with George lying ill like this. I have to be always with
him."

"Of course," said Arthur, gently. "I know how hard it is to keep up
heart at all; still it is worth trying: we often do better than we
expect."

His sweet voice and sympathetic face made the poor woman almost break
down; she pushed hastily on, and, saying something incoherently about
leading the way, ushered us through a kitchen and up a short flight
of stairs. I would have given a great deal to have been allowed to
stay behind. But Arthur walked simply on behind the woman.

"I won't tell him you're here," she said; "he'd say he wasn't fit to
see you. But it won't harm him; maybe it'll even cheer him up a bit."
She pushed the door open just above; I could distinguish the sound of
hard breathing, with every now and then a kind of catch in the
breath, and a moan; then we found ourselves inside the room.

The sick man was lying propped up on pillows, with a curious wistful
and troubled look on his face, which altered very quickly as we came
in. Much of his suffering was nervous, so-called; and a distraction,
any new impression which diverted his mind, was very helpful to him.

"George," said the woman, "here is Mr. Hamilton and his friend come
over from the Squire's to see you."

He gave a grateful murmur, and pointed to a chair.

"I am so sorry," said Arthur, simply, "to see you in such suffering,
Mr. Keighley. We heard you were in trouble, so we thought we would
ride over and see if we could do anything for you."

"Thank you, sir, kindly," said the sick man, feebly. "But I'm past
doin' anything for now. Doctor's giv'n me up; he gives me a week. But
thank you all the same."

He closed his eyes for a moment; and then, looking round quickly,
fingering the counterpane, he said, "Ah, sir, this isn't a place for
you to be in; but I take it very kindly of you. Ah! Ah! It seems as
if it might have been made a bit easier, might dyin'. It's hard
work--it's terrible hard. It's bad enough by itself, having to go out
into the dark--and all alone; but it's full of worse terrors than
even that. The air's full of them. When I am lyin' here still, with
my eyes shut, prayin' for it all to be over, I seem to hear them
buzzin' and whisperin' in the air. Then it comes, all on a sudden,
on me--here"--putting his hand to his he