Paul took two strides toward him. "Shut it up!" The cabinet was closed. At the same moment Mrs. Ritson came from the inner room. Paul turned on his heel. "He is thinking of the will," said the elder brother. "Perhaps it is natural that he should distrust me; but when the time comes he is welcome to the half of everything, and ten thousand wills would hardly give him more." Mrs. Ritson was strongly agitated. Her eyes, red with weeping, were aflame with expression. "Paul, he is conscious," she cried in a voice that her anxiety could not subdue. "He is trying to speak. Where is the lawyer?" Hugh had been moving toward the outer door. "Conscious!" he repeated, and returned to the hearth. "Send for Mr. Bonnithorne at once!" said Mrs. Ritson, addressing Hugh. Her manner was feverish. Hugh touched the bell. When the servant appeared, he said: "Tell Natt to run to the village for Mr. Bonnithorne." Paul had walked to the door of the inner room. His hand was on the handle, when the door opened and Greta came out. She stepped up to Mrs. Ritson and tried to quiet her agitation. The servant returned. "I can't find Natt," she said. "He is not in the house." "You'll find him in the stable," said Hugh, composedly. The servant went out hurriedly. Paul returned to the middle of the room. "I'll go myself," he said, and plucked his hat from the settle, but Mrs. Ritson rose to prevent him. "No, no, Paul," she said in a tremulous voice, "you must never leave his side." Paul glanced at his brother with a perplexed look. The calmness of Hugh's manner disturbed him. The servant reappeared. "Natt is not in the stable, sir." Paul's face was growing crimson. Mrs. Ritson turned to Hugh. "Hugh, my dear son, do you go for the lawyer." A faint smile that lurked at the corners of Hugh's mouth gave way to a look of injury. "Mother, my place, also, is here. How can you ask me to leave my father's side at a moment like this?" Greta had been looking fixedly at Hugh. "I'll go," she said, resolutely. "Impossible," said Paul. "It is now dark--the roads are wet and lonely." "I'll go, nevertheless," said Greta, firmly. "God bless you, my darling, and love you and keep you forever!" said Paul. Wrapping a cloak about her shoulders, he whispered: "My brave girl--that's the stuff of which an English woman may be made." He opened the door and walked out with her across the court-yard. The night was now clear and calm; the stars burned; the trees whispered; the distant ghylls, swollen by the rain, roared loud through the thin air; a bird on the bough of a fir-tree whistled and chirped. The storm was gone; only its wreckage lay in the still room within. "A safe journey to you, dear girl, and a speedy return," whispered Paul, and in another moment Greta had vanished in the dark.