Although it was a bright autumn morning, the stillness of death hovered over Glanyravon Farm.  There was scarcely a sound to be heard within or without.  The men in the yard moved about like spectres, and work was suspended in the harvest fields; whispers circulated from bedroom to kitchen, and from kitchen to outhouse, that the good and kind mistress whom every body loved, was on her deathbed; and how should they labour?  All the talk of the farm-servants was upon subjects ominous of death.  One said that he had heard Lion, the big watch-dog, howl long and loud before daylight; another that he had seen a corpse candle as he went homewards the previous evening; a third that she had seen her mistress all in white at her bedside, looking beautiful; a fourth that she had heard a raven croak; in short, if sighs and wonders could kill poor Mrs Prothero, there was little chance for her life.  Where every one was usually so busy, so full of energy and spirit, there was more than a Sabbath calm.  They were expecting some one, too, for Tom and Bill were looking down the road about every five minutes, whilst Shanno appeared now and again at the back door, and whispered ‘Is he coming?’ to which a shake of the head was a constant reply.

The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear.  Mrs Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.

’She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the morning,’ whispered one.

‘Couldn’t take a drop of anything,’ said another.

‘Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,’ said a third.

’There’ll be a loss to every one.  Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church last Sunday; if prayers’ll save her she ‘ont die, no seure.’

‘She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.’

’And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss Netta ran away.’

‘She’s the death of her mother I always say.’

‘Poor master is nearly mad.’

‘And Mr Owen crying like a baby.’

’And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to ’em all.’

’Hush!  I do hear wheels.  Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up a bit.’

The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne’s carriage was driving down to the farm.  The bystanders drew back as it rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door.  Rowland got out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him.  He went into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards.  Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,—­’Your mother is still alive.’

‘Thank God I!’ exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and wringing the hand that pressed his.

‘Is there any hope?’ he asked of Dr Richards.