“Tell me which way to go,” cried Richard, under his breath.  “Is he upstairs?”

She kept her hold upon his hand, and he gripped it tight as she led him up the stairs.  It was as if he felt a mother’s clasp for the first time since his babyhood and could not let it go.

“In here,” she indicated softly, and the young man went in, his head bent, his lips set.

* * * * *

Two hours afterward he came out.  She was waiting for him, though it was midnight.  Louis and Stephen were waiting, too, and they in turn grasped his hand, their faces pitiful for the keen grief they saw in his.  Then Mrs. Gray took him down to the porch, where the warm May night folded them softly about.  She sat down beside him on a wide settle.

“He is all I have in the world!” cried Richard Kendrick.  “If he goes—­” He could not say more, and, turning, put his arms down upon the back of the seat and his head upon them.  Great, tearless sobs shook him.  Mrs. Gray laid her kind hand upon his shoulder, and spoke gentle, motherly words—­a few words, not many—­and kept her hand there until he had himself under control again.

By and by Mrs. Stephen Gray came out with a little tray upon which was set forth a simple lunch, daintily served.  The young man tried to eat, to show her how much this touched him, but succeeded in swallowing only a portion of the delicate food.  Then he got up.  “You are all so good,” said he gratefully.  “You have helped me more than I can tell you.  I will go back now.  I want to stay with him to-night, if you will allow me.”

They gave him a room across the hall from that in which his grandfather lay, but he did not occupy it.  All night he sat, a silent figure on the opposite side of the bed from that where the nurse was on guard.  His grandfather’s regular physician was in attendance the greater part of the night at his request, though there seemed nothing to do but await the issue.  Another distinguished member of the profession had seen the case in consultation early in the evening, and the two had found themselves unable between them to discover a remote possibility of hope.

In the early morning the watcher stole downstairs, feeling as if he must for at least a few moments get into the outer world.  His eyes were heavy with his vigil, yet there was no sleep behind them, and he could not bear to be long away lest a change come suddenly.  The old man had not roused when he had first spoken to him, and the nurse had said that his last conscious words had been a call for his grandson.  Goaded by this thought, Richard turned back before he had so much as reached the foot of the garden, where he had thought he should spend at least a quarter of an hour.

As he came in at the door he was met by Roberta, cool and fresh in blue.  It was but five in the morning; surely she did not commonly rise at this hour, even in May.  The thought made his heart leap.  She came straight to him and put both hands in his, saying in her friendly, low voice:  “Mr. Kendrick, I’m sorry—­sorry!”