That was a dreadful day, the end of the sixth week, the moment when the crisis must come. It was in the June evening, still daylight, but getting late, when the doctor arrived. Mr. Mannering had been very ill all day, sleeping, or in a state of stupor nearly all the time, moving his head uneasily on his pillow, but never rousing to any consciousness of what was going on about him. The nurses, always cheerful, did not, however, conceal their apprehensions. He had taken his beef tea, he had taken the milk which they poured down his throat: but his strength was gone, and he lay with no longer any power to struggle, like a forsaken boat on the sea margin, to be drifted off or on the beach according to the pleasure of wind and tide. Miss Bethune sat in her room holding Dora’s hand, who, however, did not realise that this was more important than any of the other days on which they had hoped that “the turn” might come, and a little impatient of the seriousness of the elder woman, who kept on saying tender words to her, caressing her hand,--so unnecessarily emotional, Dora thought, seeing that at all events it was not _her_ father who was ill, and she had no reason to be so unhappy about it. This state of excitement was brought to a climax by the sound of the doctor’s steps going upstairs, followed close by the lighter step of Dr. Roland, whom no etiquette could now restrain, who followed into the very room, and if he did not give an opinion in words, gave it with his eyes, and saw, even more quickly than the great Dr. Vereker, everything that was to be seen. It was he who came down a few minutes later, while they were both listening for the more solemn movements of the greater authority, descending with a rush like that of a bird, scarcely touching the steps, and standing in the last sunset light which came from the long staircase window behind, like something glorified and half angelic, as if his house coat, glazed at the shoulders and elbows, had been some sort of shining mail. Tears were in Dr. Roland’s eyes; he waved his hand over his head and broke forth into a broken hurrah. Miss Bethune sprang up to meet him, holding out her hands. And in the sight of stern youth utterly astonished by this exhibition, these two elderly people as good as rushed into each other’s arms. Dora was so astounded, so disapproving, so little aware that this was her last chance for her father’s life, that she almost forgot her father in the consternation, shame, and horror with which she looked on. What did they mean? It could not have anything to do with her father, of whom they were “no relations". How dared they to bring in their own silly affairs when she was in such trouble? And then Miss Bethune caught herself, Dora, in her arms. “What is the matter?” cried the girl. “Oh, let me alone! I can think of nothing but father and Dr. Vereker, who is upstairs.”