“Ride this horse back!” cried George. “I can walk easily enough; but there must be a doctor at Mount Vernon to-night. If you could have seen my brother’s face--I did not see my poor sister, but--” “Very well,” answered the doctor, coolly. “I never delay a moment when it is possible to get to a patient; and if you will trudge the five miles home I will be at Mount Vernon as soon as this horse can take me there.” Dr. Craik went into the house to get his saddle-bags, and in a few minutes he appeared, fully prepared, and, mounting the horse, started for Mount Vernon at a sharp canter. George set out on his long and disagreeable tramp. He was a good walker, but the snow troubled him, and it was nearly daylight before he found himself in sight of the house. Lights were moving about, and, with a sinking heart, George felt a presentiment that his little playmate was hovering between life and death. When he entered the hall he found a fire burning, and William Fairfax sitting by it. No one had slept at Mount Vernon that night. George was weary and wet up to his knees, but his first thought was for little Mildred. “She is still very ill, I believe,” said William. “Dr. Craik came, and Cousin Anne met him at the door, and she burst into tears. The doctor said you were walking back, and Cousin Anne said, ‘I will always love George the better for this night.’” George went softly up the stairs and listened at the nursery door. He tapped, and Betty opened the door a little. He could see the child’s crib drawn up to the fire, the doctor hanging over it, while the poor father and mother clung together a little way off. “She is no worse,” whispered Betty. With this sorry comfort George went to his room and changed his clothes. As he came down-stairs he saw his brother and sister go down before him for a little respite after their long watch; but on reaching the hall no one was there but William Fairfax, standing in the same place before the hearth. George went up and began to warm his chilled limbs. Then William made the most indiscreet speech of his life--one of those things which, uninspired by malice, and the mere outspoken word of a heedless person, are yet capable of doing infinite harm and causing extreme pain. “George,” said he, “you know if Mildred dies you will get Mount Vernon and all your brother’s fortune.” George literally glared at William. His temper, naturally violent, blazed within him, and his nerves, through fatigue and anxiety and his long walk, not being under his usual control, he felt capable of throttling William where he stood. “Do you mean to say--do you think that I want my brother’s child to die?--that I--” George spoke in a voice of concentrated rage that frightened William, who could only stammer, “I thought--perhaps--I--I--” The next word was lost, for George, hitting out from the shoulder, struck William full in the chest, who fell over as if he had been shot.