"She is dead, Griff; I'm not going to lie to you." Not a word said Griff, but set his feet on the stairs, and began to mount them slowly. The doctor followed, put a hand on his shoulder, and led him down again to the hall. "Not just yet, lad. When people die in great pain, it is not good to--can you understand me?--I want you to say good-bye to a calm face, Griff." "Yes, yes. She was very beautiful, doctor, wasn't she? Too beautiful, I fancy; I should have reckoned on that." His dull, passionless voice jarred on the old man terribly. "See, lad, you must pull yourself together. The child is alive; keep up heart for the bairn's sake." "The child? What do I want with the child? It is Kate I want." "A boy, too--you always wanted a boy, you know," went on the other, not heeding Griff's fretful interruption. The door stood open, and Griff, looking out across the moor, saw the crimson sun sinking into a grey bank of haze. "We shall have snow to-night," he said, and glanced at the doctor as if prepared to meet dissent with argument. "Yes, I fancy we shall--a heavy fall, too." Griff straightened his shoulders presently, and held out his hand. "You've done your best, doctor, and I thank you for it. I can't get used to the idea just at once; perhaps--if you left me to think it out a bit--I might get the hang of things better." "God forgive me!" muttered the doctor, as he went out; "it is only staving off utter hopelessness for the lad. The child is as good as dead; it may live a day or two--a week, perhaps--it would have been better if it had never lived at all. Lord, Lord, what a mess life makes of itself!" Without, Gorsthwaite showed itself in touch with the black weather. A sullen frost had hold of the land, and the stained old walls answered the sky with frown for frown. The plover wheeled ceaselessly about the chimney-stacks, and the voice of the damned rang dryly through their sable throats. Within, the rooms were darkened, and the oaken panels creaked at the burden of their own sad thoughts. The mistress had been taken to her rest, and the master was battling for his reason, with a face that aped the stones which shut him in. All that he had in him of dogged resistance was pushing its way to the front: one blow had followed another, and the end, perhaps, was not yet--but he would fight till his own end came. He got up from the bed where she had died, and moved stiffly up and down the room. He thought of the child, and forced himself to recall, one by one, the goodly plans he had framed for him. Yes, he should grow up strong--a Lomax to the backbone--he should take his fill of life, and help his father to live again in watching him. Steady! The boy would have need of his father, as his father had of him: there must be no knuckling under to circumstance now.