‘Here’s the medicine, mother,’ said Rose eagerly.  She was flushed with running.  ’It’s chloric ether and nitrate of potash, a highly diffusible stimulant.  And there’s a chance that sooner or later it may put him into a perspiration.  But it will be worse than useless if the hot applications aren’t kept up, the doctor said.  You must raise his head and give it him in a spoon in very small doses.’

And then Meshach impassively submitted to the handling of his head and his mouth.  He gurgled faintly in accepting the medicine, and soon his temples and the corners of his lips showed a very slight perspiration.  But though the doses were repeated, and the fomentations assiduously maintained, no further result occurred, save that Meshach’s eyes, according to the shifting of his head, perused new portions of the ceiling.

* * * * *

As the futile minutes passed, John grew more and more restless.  He was obliged to admit to himself that Uncle Meshach was not dead, but he felt absolutely sure that he would never revive.  Had not the doctor said as much?  And he wanted desperately to hear that Aunt Hannah still lived, and to take every measure of precaution for her continuance in this world.  The whole of his future might depend upon the hazard of the next hour.

‘Look here, Nora,’ he said protestingly, while Rose was on one of her journeys to the kitchen.  ’It’s evidently not much use you stopping here, whereas there’s no knowing what hasn’t happened down at Church Street.’

‘Do you mean you wish me to go down there?’ she asked coldly.

‘Well, I leave it to your common sense,’ he retorted.

Rose appeared.

‘Your father thinks I ought to go down to Church Street,’ said Leonora.

‘What!  And leave uncle?’ Rose added nothing to this question, but proceeded with her tasks.

‘Certainly,’ John insisted.

Leonora was conscious of an acute resentment against her husband.  The idea of her leaving Uncle Meshach at such a crisis seemed to her to be positively wicked.  Had not John heard what Rose said to the doctor:  ‘Mother must stay here’?  Had he not heard that?  But of course he desired that Uncle Meshach should die.  Yes, every word, every gesture of his in the sick-room was an involuntary expression of that desire.

‘Why don’t you go yourself, father?’ Rose demanded of him bluntly, after a pause.

‘Simply because, if there is any illness, I shouldn’t be any use.’  John glared at his daughter.

Then, quite suddenly, Leonora thought how vain, how pitiful, how unseemly, were these acrimonious conflicts of opinion in presence of the strange and awe-inspiring riddle in the blanket.  An impulse seized her to give way, and she found a dozen reasons why she should desert Uncle Meshach for Aunt Hannah.

‘Can you manage?’ she asked Rose doubtfully.

‘Oh yes, mother, we can manage,’ answered Rose, with an exasperating manufactured sweetness of tone.