“No, my dear, the spasm will pass off presently.”  But his face grew more ashy pale, and his jaw drooped.

“Dear father,” said the frightened girl, “what shall I do for you?  Oh, dear, if mother were only at home, or Hugh, to run for the doctor!”

“Mildred, my daughter,” he gasped with difficulty, “the blacksmith,—­send for Ralph Hardwick,—­quick!  In the ebony cabinet, middle drawer, you will find——­Oh! oh!—­God bless you, my daughter!—­God bless”——­

The angels, only, heard the conclusion of the sentence; for the speaker, Walter Kinloch, was dead, summoned to the invisible world without a warning and with hardly a struggle.

But Mildred thought he had fainted, and, raising the window, called loudly for Lucy Ransom, the only female domestic then in the house.

Lucy, frightened out of her wits at the sudden call, came rushing to the piazza, flat-iron in hand, and stood riveted to the spot where she first saw the features on which the awful shadow of death had settled.

“Rub his hands, Lucy!” said Mildred.  “Run for some water!  Get me the smelling-salts!”

Lucy attempted to obey all three orders at once, and therefore did nothing.

Mildred held the unresisting hand.  “It is warm,” she said.  “But the pulse,—­I can’t find it.”

“Deary, no,” said Lucy, “you won’t find it.”

“Why, you don’t mean”——­

“Yes, Mildred, he’s dead!” And she let fall her flat-iron, and covered her face with her apron.

But Mildred kept chafing her father’s temples and hands,—­calling piteously, in hopes to get an answer from the motionless lips.  Then she sank down at his feet, and clasped his knees in an agony of grief.

A carriage stopped at the door, and a hasty step came up the walk.

“Lucy Ransom,” said Mrs. Kinloch, (for it was she, just returned from her drive,) “Lucy Ransom, what are you blubbering about?  Here on the piazza, and with your flat-iron!  What is the matter?”

“Matter enough!” said Lucy.  “See!—­see Mr.”——­But the sobs were too frequent.  She became choked, and fell into an hysterical paroxysm.

By this time Mrs. Kinloch had stepped upon the piazza, and saw the drooping head, the dangling arms, and the changed face of her husband.  “Dead! dead!” she exclaimed.  “My God! what has happened?  Mildred, who was with him?  Was the doctor sent for? or Squire Clamp? or Mr. Rook?  What did he say to you, dear?” And she tried to lift up the sobbing child, who still clung to the stiffening knees where she had so often climbed for a kiss.

“Oh, mother! is he dead?—­no life left?”

“Calm yourself, my dear child,” said Mrs. Kinloch.  “Tell me, did he say anything?”

Mildred replied, “He was faint, and before I could give him the cordial he asked for he was almost gone.  ‘The blacksmith,’ he said, ’send for Ralph Hardwick’; then he said something of the ebony cabinet, but could not speak the words which were on his lips.”  She could say no more, but gave way to uncontrollable tears and sobs.