op of anything,' said another.

'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.

'There'll be a loss to every one. Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church
last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.'

'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.'

'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss
Netta ran away.'

'She's the death of her mother I always say.'

'Poor master is nearly mad.'

'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.'

'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em
all.'

'Hush! I do hear wheels. Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up
a bit.'

The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's
carriage was driving down to the farm. The bystanders drew back as it
rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door. Rowland got
out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him. He went
into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards.
Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,--'Your mother is still
alive.'

'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and
wringing the hand that pressed his.

'Is there any hope?' he asked of Dr Richards.

'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to
say--if we could rouse her?'

'I may go upstairs?'

'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the
outer room.'

Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times;
he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside,
groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father. He went up softly to him
and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in
a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and
mother lay.

Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently
vacated for him. He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was
really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and
fever of the past week. He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his
mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept
silently. Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed
her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips
with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still
continued to find a passage down the throat. Mrs Jonathan Prothero
crept softly up to