“God’s will be done,” I rather whispered than uttered aloud.  “Heaven is a place more suited to such a spirit than the abodes of men.”

Lucy pressed my hand, and appeared relieved from a load of intense anxiety by this seeming fortitude.  She bade me remain where I was, until she had herself apprized Grace of my return from church.  I could see through the open door that the negresses had been directed to retire, and presently I heard the footstep of Mr. Hardinge approaching the room adjoining that in which I then was, and which answered the purpose of a sort of ante-chamber for those who came to the sick-room from the more public side of the house.  I met my excellent old guardian in that apartment, and Lucy was at my side at the next instant.  One word from the last sufficed to keep us in this room while she returned to that of Grace.

“God have mercy on us, my dear boy”—­the divine ejaculated, as much in prayer as in grief—­“and I say on us, as well as on you, for Grace has ever been dear to me as a child of my own.  I knew the blow must come, and have prayed the Lord to prepare us all for it, and to sanctify it to us, old and young; but, notwithstanding, death has come ‘literally’ when no man knoweth.  I must have materials for writing, Miles, and you will choose an express for me out of your people; let the man be ready to mount in half an hour; for I shall not require half that time to prepare my letter.”

“Medical advice is useless, I am afraid, dear sir,” I answered.  “We have Post’s directions, and very respectable attendance from our own family physician, Dr. Wurtz, who gave me to understand several days since that he saw no other means of averting the evil we dread than those already adopted.  Still, sir, I shall be easier, if we can persuade Dr. Bard to cross the river, and have already thought of sending Neb once more on that errand.”

“Do so,” returned Mr. Hardinge, drawing towards him a little table on which Dr. Wurtz had written a few prescriptions that were used more for form, I believe, than any expectation of the good they could do; and beginning to write, even while talking—­“Do so”—­he added—­“and Neb can put this letter in the post-office on the eastern bank of the river, which will be the quickest mode of causing it to reach Rupert”

“Rupert!” I exclaimed, on a key that I instantly regretted.

“Certainly; we can do no less than send for Rupert, Miles.  He has ever been like a brother to Grace, and the poor fellow would feel the neglect keenly, did we overlook him on an occasion like this.  You seem astonished at my thinking of summoning him to Clawbonny.”

“Rupert is at the springs, sir—­happy in the society of Miss Merton—­would it not be better to leave him where he is?”

“What would you think, Miles, were Lucy on her death-bed, and we should fail to let you know it?”

I gazed so wildly at the good old man, I believe, that even his simplicity could not avoid seeing the immense difference between the real and the supposititious case.