Slowly the hours of that glorious summer day went by, and Archie’s pulse grew fainter and his voice weaker, while the real birds without in the yews, and in the hedge-rows, and the imaginary birds within, sang louder and clearer, and the dying man listened to them with a rapt look in his white face, and a light in his eyes which told of peace and a perfectly painless death.

At last the day was ended, and the shades of night crept in and around the old gray house, while a darker shadow than any which night ever brings was in the sick-room where Archie lay, half unconscious, and talking, now of Daisy, now of Bessie, and now of Neil and asking if he had come.  He had not nor any answer to the telegram, and Bessie’s heart was very heavy and sad with a sense of desertion and terrible loneliness.  How could she bear to be alone with her dead father, and only Anthony and Dorothy to counsel her?  What should she do, and where was Neil, that he made no response to tell her he was coming?  She did not consider that, even had he received the telegram, he could not reach Stoneleigh that night.

She did not realize anything except the dread and pain which weighed her down, as, with her father’s hand in hers, she sat waiting for the end, while the old servants stole in and out noiselessly.

Suddenly, as she waited thus, she caught the sound of a footstep without, a quick footstep which seemed familiar to her, and with a cry of “Neil!” on her lips, she arose swiftly, and hastened to the outer door just as the tall form of a young man stood before the threshold.

Bessie’s eyes were full of tears, and the lamp on the bracket rather blinded than helped her, and so she could not see the stranger distinctly; but it was Neil, of course—­come in response to her summons; and with a great glad cry she sprang toward the young man, and clinging convulsively to him, sobbed out: 

“Oh, Neil, Neil!  I am so glad you have come, for father is dying, and I am all alone.  It is so dreadful, and what shall I do? Oh, oh, it isn’t Neil!” and she gave a little scream of terror and surprise, as, looking up, she met Grey Jerrold’s face bending over her instead of Neil’s.

Grey had been to Carnarvon on the old business, and, moved by a desire to see Bessie’s blue eyes again, had come to the “George Hotel” to pass the night, intending to call at Stoneleigh in the morning.  But hearing of Mr. McPherson’s illness, he had decided to step over that night and inquire for him, and thus it was that he found himself in a very novel position, with Bessie sobbing in his arms, which had involuntarily opened to receive her when she made the rush toward him.

“No, it is not Neil,” he said, trying to detain her as she drew herself from him.  “It is Grey; but perhaps I can help you.  I heard at the ‘George’ of your father’s illness, and came at once.  Is he so very bad?” And, leading her to a sofa and sitting down beside her, he continued:  “Tell me all your trouble, please, and what I can do for you.”