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 sigh would break from her lips, whilst from time to time a tear forced its way to her eyes.

Dusk was falling now.  She could no longer see across the expanse of park land which surrounded Gablehurst.  She drew the curtains at last with gentle hands, and piled up the logs upon the hearth.  There was a glint of something in her eyes not altogether accounted for by the tears in them.  It was a sparkle which bespoke wounded sensibility—­something approaching to anger.

“O brother, brother,” she whispered, with dry lips, “how can you treat him so?  Have you a heart?  How terrible a judgment you seem to be seeking to draw down upon yourself!  What will the end be like, if this is the beginning?”

The flames leapt up with a sudden ruddy glow.  The room had been dark before; now it was suddenly flooded with a brilliant palpitating light.  As Rachel turned back to the bed, she saw that her father’s eyes had opened.  The mists of weakness no longer seemed to cloud his sight.  He was looking round him with comprehension and observation.

“Where is Tom?”

It was the question they had been expecting all day.  It was in anticipation of this that messengers had been scouring the neighbourhood in search of that young ne’er-do-well, Tom Tufton, the good Squire’s unworthy son.

And yet, unworthy as he was—­idle, reckless, dissipated, a source of pain and anxiety to father, mother, and sister—­young Tom was beloved by the people in and about his home, albeit they all shook their heads over his follies and wildness, and wondered with bated breath what would befall Gablehurst when the young master should be lord of all.

“Where is Tom?” asked the Squire, in a firmer voice than they had thought to hear again.

“Dear father, we have sent for him,” answered Rachel soothingly; “he will be here anon.”

“I would speak with Tom,” said the Squire.  “There are things I needs must say to him ere I close my eyes for ever.  Perchance I have already delayed too long.  Yet I have waited and waited, hoping for signs of seriousness in one so soon to lose a parent.  But seriousness and Tom have no dealings together, it would seem.  God forgive us if it be any lack on our part that has made our son the wild young blade that he seems like to be!”