‘Don’t tell me them!  I cannot hear them!’ cried the squire.  ’Of course we must all die; and she must too.  But not the cleverest doctor in England shall go about coolly meting out the life of such as her.  I dare say I shall die first.  I hope I shall.  But I’ll knock any one down who speaks to me of the death sitting within me.  And, besides, I think all doctors are ignorant quacks, pretending to knowledge they haven’t got.  Ay, you may smile at me.  I don’t care.  Unless you can tell me I shall die first, neither you nor your Dr Nicholls shall come prophesying and croaking about this house.’

Mr. Gibson went away, heavy at heart at the thought of Mrs. Hamley’s approaching death, but thinking little enough of the squire’s speeches.  He had almost forgotten them, in fact, when about nine o’clock that evening, a groom rode in from Hamley Hall in hot haste, with a note from the squire.

DEAR GIBSON,—­For God’s sake forgive me if I was rude to-day.  She is much worse.  Come and spend the night here.  Write for Nicholls, and all the physicians you want.  Write before you start off here.  They may give her ease.  There were Whitworth doctors much talked of in my youth for curing people given up by the regular doctors; can’t you get one of them?  I put myself in your hands.  Sometimes I think it is the turning point, and she’ll rally after this bout.  I trust all to you.

Yours ever,

R. HAMLEY.

P.S.—­Molly is a treasure.—­God help me!

Of course Mr. Gibson went; for the first time since his marriage cutting short Mrs. Gibson’s querulous lamentations over her life, as involved in that of a doctor called out at all hours of day and night.

He brought Mrs. Hamley through this attack; and for a day or two the squire’s alarm and gratitude made him docile in Mr. Gibson’s hands.  Then he returned to the idea of its being a crisis through which his wife had passed; and that she was now on the way to recovery.  But the day after the consultation with Dr Nicholls, Mr. Gibson said to Molly,—­

’Molly!  I’ve written to Osborne and Roger.  Do you know Osborne’s address?’

’No, papa.  He’s in disgrace.  I don’t know if the squire knows; and she has been too ill to write.’

’Never mind.  I’ll enclose it to Roger; whatever those lads may be to others, there’s as strong brotherly love as ever I saw, between the two.  Roger will know.  And, Molly, they are sure to come home as soon as they hear my report of their mother’s state.  I wish you’d tell the squire what I’ve done.  It’s not a pleasant piece of work; and I’ll tell madam myself in my own way.  I’d have told him if he’d been at home; but you say he was obliged to go to Ashcombe on business.’

’Quite obliged.  He was so sorry to miss you.  But, papa, he will be so angry!  You don’t know how mad he is against Osborne.’