“No, I sent in a nurse this morning. Good-night, I must not stay here any longer.” The doctor got back into his gig and drove away, and Rowton stood for a brief moment at his horse’s head. He was a man of quick action at all times. “Not home just at present, Satyr,” he said to the horse; “here, turn your head to the left. So! ho! old boy, easy, easy.” A moment later horse and rider were flying almost on the wings of the wind in the direction of the Grange. There was a long rambling avenue under dark lime trees up to the old house. Rowton did not wait to open the gates. Setting spurs to his horse the animal quickly leapt these obstacles, and then at full speed galloped up the avenue. When the pair approached the house Rowton pulled up abruptly, and springing from his steed led him softly over the grass. A great cedar tree stood in the middle of the desolate lawn. Taking a leather strap from his pocket, Rowton tied his horse to a branch of this tree, and then stepping quickly up to one of the windows he began to whistle, in gay clear notes, the well-known strains of “Garry Owen.” His whistle rang out joyfully; he had just completed the melody and was going to begin it a second time, when a noise at a little distance caused him to turn his head; a faint light proceeded from an open door, and a girl’s slender figure was seen standing on the steps. Rowton made a stride forward, and the next moment had clasped Nancy Follett to his heart. “This is good,” he said. “I have hungered for a kiss. What is the matter, sweetheart? you tremble as though you were an aspen leaf.” “Because I am so glad to see you,” she replied. “But how did you know? What brought you here at this hour?” “By good luck, I met Dr. Read,” exclaimed Rowton; “he told me of your trouble. There, sweetheart, you need not tremble; I am here to shelter you.” “But you don’t know everything, Adrian,” she said in a sort of choking whisper. “Things have changed since I saw you last.” “You need not tell me that, I know all about it,” he replied. “Your father is dying and you are miserable—but things must be better when I am with you. Let us come indoors; you will catch your death of cold if you stay out in an awful gale of this sort, besides, we can scarcely hear our own voices; come, I suppose you have some sort of fire in that big, desolate dining-room.” “Just a spark,” she answered, with a smile, which she quickly repressed. “You seem to lift a weight off my heart,” she continued. “It is strength and real gladness to have you close to me; but, Adrian, I cannot stay with you; he is dying—the doctor says he will not last till morning.” While she was speaking, Nancy turned and, followed by Rowton, entered the great hall of the almost empty mansion. “Why, it is as dark as pitch,” exclaimed the young man, “what a state of things; have you no candles, no lamps, nothing to show a gleam of light on an awful night of this sort?”