“George,” said Henry, when he saw that the frantic grief had in some measure abated—­“be calm, George, and endeavour to listen to me.”

“I hear, Henry.”

“Well, then, do not suppose that you are the only one in this house to whom so dreadful a superstition has occurred.”

“Not the only one?”

“No; it has occurred to Mr. Marchdale also.”

“Gracious Heaven!”

“He mentioned it to me; but we have both agreed to repudiate it with horror.”

“To—­repudiate—­it?”

“Yes, George.”

“And yet—­and yet—­”

“Hush, hush!  I know what you would say.  You would tell us that our repudiation of it cannot affect the fact.  Of that we are aware; but yet will we disbelieve that which a belief in would be enough to drive us mad.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“To keep this supposition to ourselves, in the first place; to guard it most zealously from the ears of Flora.”

“Do you think she has ever heard of vampyres?”

“I never heard her mention that in all her reading she had gathered even a hint of such a fearful superstition.  If she has, we must be guided by circumstances, and do the best we can.”

“Pray Heaven she may not!”

“Amen to that prayer, George,” said Henry.  “Mr. Marchdale and I intend to keep watch over Flora to-night.”

“May not I join you?”

“Your health, dear George, will not permit you to engage in such matters.  Do you seek your natural repose, and leave it to us to do the best we can in this most fearful and terrible emergency.”

“As you please, brother, and as you please, Mr. Marchdale.  I know I am a frail reed, and my belief is that this affair will kill me quite.  The truth is, I am horrified—­utterly and frightfully horrified.  Like my poor, dear sister, I do not believe I shall ever sleep again.”

“Do not fancy that, George,” said Marchdale.  “You very much add to the uneasiness which must be your poor mother’s portion, by allowing this circumstance to so much affect you.  You well know her affection for you all, and let me therefore, as a very old friend of hers, entreat you to wear as cheerful an aspect as you can in her presence.”

“For once in my life,” said George, sadly, “I will; to my dear mother, endeavour to play the hypocrite.”

“Do so,” said Henry.  “The motive will sanction any such deceit as that, George, be assured.”

The day wore on, and Poor Flora remained in a very precarious situation.  It was not until mid-day that Henry made up his mind he would call in a medical gentleman to her, and then he rode to the neighbouring market-town, where he knew an extremely intelligent practitioner resided.  This gentleman Henry resolved upon, under a promise of secrecy, makings confidant of; but, long before he reached him, he found he might well dispense with the promise of secrecy.