The boy was dying; the little heir to the broad acres and the old name was about done with earthly things. It had been a beautiful day; the sun had blazed down from a cloudless sky on the wide park, the glowing flower-beds, and the green lawns of Woodlea Hall. It seemed a mockery; outside so bright, inside so full of gloom. Still, until Sir Henry Fairfax's arrival, there had been hope. Doctor Brown, the country doctor, had spoken of "returning consciousness" to the anxious mother. They had watched and waited, however, for that "returning consciousness" in vain. The lad lay white and still, breathing slowly, with closed eyes. He took no notice of his mother's tender words, of her fond appeals. He did not hear them, and his bright eyes were closed to smile no more. "Rachel, my dear, will you leave him any longer alone?" at last Mr. Temple ventured to say, as his wife wept and moaned, and he laid his hand on her shoulder as he spoke. She started and looked up. "Did you say no hope?" she asked, wildly. "Sir Henry said--" faltered Mr. Temple. "Then there is none for me--none, none!" went on the wretched woman, in her despair. "Why should I lose everything? Why should God take everything from me? I have been a good woman for Phil's sake, and He is going to take him--all the good that is in me will be buried in his grave!" "Hush, hush, my poor girl; do not talk thus." "What do you understand," continued Mrs. Temple, yet more wildly, "of love like mine? You are old--you do not suffer--" "I do, God knows I do!" cried the unhappy man, and tears rushed into his eyes, and ran down his furrowed cheeks as he spoke. "When George Hill died, I bore it for Phil's sake," went on Mrs. Temple, regardless, or forgetful, of the useless pain she was inflicting; "and now--and now, my darling, my darling, must I lose you, too?" "Come to him now, at least," urged Mr. Temple; "you would wish to be with him, would you not, Rachel? There may be some--parting word." Mrs. Temple moaned aloud. "You mean before he--" "Before he leaves us. Come, my poor Rachel, for his sake try to compose yourself." These words seemed to have some effect on the unhappy mother. She made an effort to be calm, and a few minutes later, leaning on her husband's arm, and tottering as she went, she returned to the bedside of the dying boy. Those standing round it moved back as she approached it. There were present the village doctor and Mrs. Layton, Mrs. Temple's mother, and the poor lad's nurse. No one spoke. Doctor Brown had already told Sir Henry Fairfax's opinion to the two weeping women, and Mrs. Layton silently put her hand into her daughter's as she neared the bed. But Mrs. Temple shrank from this mark of sympathy. Without a word she fell on her knees and fixed her eyes on the face of the unconscious boy.