This idea, founded on a general estimate of her sex, was dispelled by a few lines from Lady Cicely, to say her family and herself were in deep distress; her brother, Lord Ayscough, lay dying from an accident.

Then Rosa was all remorse, and ran down to Staines to tell him.  She found him with an open letter in his hand.  It was from Dr. Barr, and on the same subject.  The doctor, who had always been friendly to him, invited him to come down at once to Hallowtree Hall, in Huntingdonshire, to a consultation.  There was a friendly intimation to start at once, as the patient might die any moment.

Husband and wife embraced each other in a tumult of surprised thankfulness.  A few necessaries were thrown into a carpet-bag, and Dr. Staines was soon whirled into Huntingdonshire.  Having telegraphed beforehand, he was met at the station by the earl’s carriage and people, and driven to the Hall.  He was received by an old, silver-haired butler, looking very sad, who conducted him to a boudoir; and then went and tapped gently at the door of the patient’s room.  It was opened and shut very softly, and Lady Cicely, dressed in black, and looking paler than ever, came into the room.

“Dr. Staines, I think?”

He bowed.

“Thank you for coming so promptly.  Dr. Barr is gone.  I fear he thinks—­he thinks—­O Dr. Staines—­no sign of life but in his poor hands, that keep moving night and day.”

Staines looked very grave at that.  Lady Cicely observed it, and, faint at heart, could say no more, but led the way to the sick-room.

There in a spacious chamber, lighted by a grand oriel window and two side windows, lay rank, title, wealth, and youth, stricken down in a moment by a common accident.  The sufferer’s face was bloodless, his eyes fixed, and no signs of life but in his thumbs, and they kept working with strange regularity.

In the room were a nurse and the surgeon; the neighboring physician, who had called in Dr. Barr, had just paid his visit and gone away.

Lady Cicely introduced Dr. Staines and Mr. White, and then Dr. Staines stood and fixed his eyes on the patient in profound silence.  Lady Cicely scanned his countenance searchingly, and was struck with the extraordinary power and intensity it assumed in examining the patient; but the result was not encouraging.  Dr. Staines looked grave and gloomy.

At last, without removing his eye from the recumbent figure, he said quietly to Mr. White, “Thrown from his horse, sir.”

“Horse fell on him, Dr. Staines.”

“Any visible injuries?”

“Yes.  Severe contusions, and a rib broken and pressed upon the lungs.  I replaced and set it.  Will you see?”

“If you please.”

He examined and felt the patient, and said it had been ably done.

Then he was silent and searching.

At last he spoke again.  “The motion of the thumbs corresponds exactly with his pulse.”