he bright days of summer were doubtless favourable to
the patient. When he could lie with open windows, breathing the
pure soft air from woodland and field, he seemed able to make a
stand against the grim enemy of human nature. But the summer was
now upon the wane; the golden sunshine was obscured by the first
driving rains of the approaching equinox; and it seemed to those
who watched at the sufferer's bedside that his life was ebbing away
as slowly and as steadily as the hours of sunshine in the
shortening day.

Today there was a look upon his face which caused Rachel many times
to turn anxious and beseeching eyes upon her mother, and yet what
she read in the expression of that worn and gentle countenance only
confirmed her own impressions.

The Squire lay very still and quiet, dozing as it seemed, whilst
the fire crackled cheerfully up the wide chimney, and the rain
dashed ceaselessly against the windows. He had not spoken for many
hours. There had come into Rachel's heart a terrible fear lest he
should never speak again. The shadow on his face looked so gray;
the features had taken so strange and pinched a look.

Rachel had seen death before in many humble homes, although it had,
so far, not touched any of her own nearest and dearest. She had
watched that creeping shadow before now, for her heart always went
out to the sick and the suffering, and her feet led her to the
homes of those who stood in need of tender sympathy and womanly
aid. But when the shadow gathered upon the face of her own loved
father, the pressure upon her heart seemed almost more than she
could bear. The tears stole down her cheeks, and her eyes sought
those of her mother with a glance of almost pitiful appeal.

The leech had stolen into the room, had stood beside the patient,
had shaken his head, and stolen away. He knew that his skill, such
as it was, could avail nothing now; it was but the question of a
few hours.

All day that stupor had continued. Rachel had feared they would
never hear his voice, or see the loving glance of his eyes again.
She had passed the time between a study of that wasted face, and an
eager and restless looking forth from the casement, as though in
search of something or somebody who came not.

Often she saw servants and messengers hastening this way and that,
exchanging words with each other, and starting off afresh; but the
one stalwart figure, for which she gazed with aching eyes, appeared
not, and often a