“There is little to be done,” said Doctor Longstreet at last.  “He must be fed—­alternately a little beef tea and then a little weak brandy and water.  We must try and keep the system up.  That is his only chance.  I will prescribe something and send it back by the groom.”

“You are not going to leave us to-night?” exclaimed the squire in alarm.

“Must.  Very sorry.  Bad case of diphtheria in town—­probably die before morning, unless I get there in time—­I would not have come here for any one else.  I will certainly be here before ten—­he will live till then, I fancy, and I don’t believe there will be any change in his condition.  Good-night, Mr. Juxon—­beef tea and brandy every quarter of an hour.  Good-night, Mr.—­” he turned to John.

“Short,” said John.  “Good-night, doctor.”

“Ah—­I remember—­used to be with Mr. Ambrose—­yes.  Delighted to meet you again, Mr. Short—­good-night.”

The doctor vanished, before either the squire or John had time to follow him.  His departure left an unpleasant sense of renewed responsibility in the squire’s mind.

“You had better go to bed, Mr. Short,” he said kindly.  “I will sit up with him.”

But John would not hear of any such arrangement; he insisted upon bearing his share of the watching and stoutly refused to leave the squire alone.  There was a large dressing-room attached to the room where Goddard was lying; the squire and John finally agreed to watch turn and turn about, one remaining with Goddard, while the other rested upon the couch in the dressing-room aforesaid.  The squire insisted upon taking his watch first, and John lay down.  It was past midnight and he was very tired, but it seemed impossible to sleep with the sound of that loud, monotonous mumbling perpetually in his ears.  It was a horrible night, and John Short never forgot it so long as he lived.  Years afterwards he could not enter the room where Goddard had lain without fancying he heard that perpetual groaning still ringing in his ears.  For many hours it continued unabated and unchanging, never dying away to silence nor developing to articulate words.  From time to time John could hear the squire’s step as he moved about, administering the nourishment prescribed.  If he had had the slightest idea of Mr. Juxon’s state of mind he would hardly have left him even to rest awhile in the next room.

Fortunately the squire’s nerves were solid.  A firm constitution hardened by thirty years of seafaring and by the consistent and temperate regularity which was part of his character, had so toughened his natural strength as to put him almost beyond the reach of mortal ills; otherwise he must have broken down under the mental strain thus forced upon him.  It is no light thing to do faithfully the utmost to save a man one has good reason to hate, and whose death would be an undoubted blessing to every one who has anything to do with him.  Walter Goddard was to Charles