“How many hours have I to live?” he inquired of Dr. West.

“Probably for some days,” was the answer.

What could it have been that was troubling the mind of Mr. Verner?  That it was worldly trouble was certain.  That other trouble, which has been known to distract the minds of the dying, to fill them with agony, was absent from his.  On that score he was in perfect peace.  But that some very great anxiety was racking him might be seen by the most casual observer.  It had been racking him for a long time past, and it was growing worse now.  And it appeared to be what he could not, or would not, speak of.

The news of the dangerous change in the master of Verner’s Pride circulated through the vicinity, and it brought forth, amidst other of his friends, Mr. Bitterworth.  This was on the second day of the change.  Tynn received Mr. Bitterworth in the hall.

“There’s no hope, sir, I’m afraid,” was Tynn’s answer to his inquiries.  “He’s not in much pain of body, but he is dreadfully anxious and uneasy.”

“What about?” asked Mr. Bitterworth, who was a little man with a pimpled face.

“Nobody knows, sir; he doesn’t say.  For myself, I can only think it must be about something connected with the estate.  What else can it be?”

“I suppose I can see him, Tynn?”

“I’ll ask, sir.  He refuses visitors in his room, but I dare say he’ll admit you.”

Lionel came to Mr. Bitterworth in the drawing-room.  “My uncle will see you,” he said, after greetings had passed.

“Tynn informs me that he appears to be uneasy in his mind,” observed Mr. Bitterworth.

“A man so changed, as he has been in the last two years, I have never seen,” replied Lionel.  “None can have failed to remark it.  From entire calmness of mind, he has exhibited anxious restlessness; I may say irritability.  Mrs. Verner is ill,” Lionel added, as they were ascending the stairs.  “She has not been out of bed for two days.”

Not in his study now; he had done with the lower part of the house for ever; but in his bed-chamber, never to come out of it alive, was Mr. Verner.  They had got him up, and he sat in an easy-chair by the bedside, partially dressed, and wrapped in his dressing-gown.  On his pale, worn face there were the unmistakable signs of death.  He and Mr. Bitterworth were left alone.

“So you have come to see the last of me, Bitterworth!” was the remark of Mr. Verner.

“Not the last yet, I hope,” heartily responded Mr. Bitterworth, who was an older man than Mr. Verner, but hale and active.  “You may rally from this attack and get about again.  Remember how many serious attacks you have had.”

“None like this.  The end must come; and it has come now.  Hush, Bitterworth!  To speak of recovery to me is worse than child’s play.  I know my time has come.  And I am glad to meet it, for it releases me from a world of care.”