‘What is it?  Has the doctor been?’

’No, Sir; I went in at six o’clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he’d come—­and sent him a blister—­but Alf was worse by the time I got back, Sir,—­he can’t breathe—­and don’t seem to notice.’

And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heels into Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with the tears drying on his face in the brisk March wind.

There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his letters into his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides for the post-office.

It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardly yet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut out some cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did not understand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman put his strong hand so as to steady Paul’s trembling one, and gave his help to fold up the parcel.

‘How is he, Paul?’

Paul was very near crying as he answered, ’Much worse, Sir.  Mother has been up all night with him.  O Sir! he did so want to live till you came home.’

‘May I go up?’ asked Mr. Cope.

Paul was sure that he might, and crept up after him.  It was bad enough, but not quite so bad as Harold, in his fright, had made Mr. Cope believe.  Poor boy! it had all come upon him now; and seeing his brother unable to speak and much oppressed, he fancied he did not know him, whereas Alfred was fully sensible, though too ill to do more than lift his eyes, and put out his weak fingers as Mr. Cope came into the room, where he was lying raised on his pillows, with his mother and sister doing all they could for him.

A terrible pain in the side had come on in the night, making every breath painful, every cough agonizing, and his whole face and brow were crimson with the effort of gasping.

Paul looked a moment but could not bear it, and went, and sat down on the top of the stairs; while Mr. Cope kindly held Alfred’s hot hand, and Mrs. King, in her low patient tone, told how the attack had begun.

She was in the midst, when Mr. Blunt’s gig was seen at the gate.  His having thus hastened his coming was more than they had dared to hope; and while Mrs. King felt grateful for the kindness, Ellen feared that it shewed that he thought very badly of the case.

Mr. Cope was much hurried, but he could not bear to go till he had heard Mr. Blunt’s opinion; so he went down to the kitchen, tried to console Paul by talking kindly to him, wrote a note, and read his letters.

They were much comforted to hear that Mr. Blunt thought that there was hope of subduing the present inflammatory pain; and though there was much immediate danger, it was not hastening so very fast to the end as they had at first supposed.  Yet, in such a state as Alfred’s, a few hours might finish all.  There was no saying.