She cast one longing glance at the blazing fire, then turning, left the room. She ran up the rambling old stairs; they were faintly lit at intervals by the struggling light of a watery moon. She reached the gallery which ran round the hall, paused before a creaking, badly hung door, and opening it, found herself in a lofty bedroom. The room was almost bare of furniture. A strip of carpet stood by the bedside, another was placed in front of the old fire-grate. With these two exceptions, the floor was bare. A deal table stood in one of the windows, on which a small looking-glass was placed, a chest of drawers of the commonest and coarsest make occupied a position beside one of the walls; there were a couple of chairs, a very old-fashioned washstand, a huge four-post bedstead made of black mahogany and hung with old velvet curtains—that was all. The dying man lay in the middle of the bed; he was raised by several pillows and was breathing loud and heavily. His eyes, with dark shadows under them, were directed anxiously towards the door through which his young daughter entered. “Come here, Nancy, be quick,” he said, speaking in an imperative voice and with wonderful strength for a dying man. She hurried across the room and stood by the bedside, looking down at him. “The Almighty has been good to me and has given me sufficient strength to say what is necessary,” panted the doctor. “I am dying.” Nancy opened her lips to speak, but no sound issued from them. “I am dying,” said Dr. Follett again. “You need not try to contradict me, Nance, I know what you would say. You have been a good girl, and you will, in the ordinary course of nature, miss me for a little; you will also as naturally forget me after a short time. I have been a burden to you and have led you a weary life, but we have no time to go into that now. Death is in a hurry and I must do something before I go to him. I have sent for you to get you to make me a promise.” Nancy began to tremble. Again she made an effort to speak, but again failed; her hands were tightly locked together and beads of sudden moisture stood on her forehead. Dr. Follett was gazing at her out of two sunken and fierce eyes. “You know what I allude to,” he said. “I see the knowledge in your face; you know what has animated me and kept me alive during the last six years.” “Yes, I know,” she replied. “I die before my work is completed,” he continued, “but I leave it to you.” “I cannot take up your work, father,” she answered.