Mechanically Agatha observed all these things during the first half-hour of her vigil; involuntarily her mind floated away to musings concerning them, until she forcibly impelled it back to consider the present. It was in vain. Innumerable conjectures flitted through her brain, but not one which she could catch hold of as a truth. Of one thing only she felt sure, that something very serious must have happened--some great mental shock, too powerful for the Squire's feeble old age. And this shock was certainly in some way or other connected with Major Harper. An hour later, when she was beginning to count every beat of the old man's pulse, and look forward with dread to a midnight vigil beside that breathing corpse, the doctor came. Agatha waited for his dictum--it needed very little skill to decide that. A few questions--a shake of the head--a solemn condolatory sigh; and all knew that the old Squire's days were numbered. “How long?” whispered Mrs. Harper, half closing the door as they came out. “I cannot say. Some hours--days--possibly a week. We never know in these cases. But, I fear, certainly within a week.” _What_ would be “within a week?” Why is it that every one dreads to say the simple word “_die_?” Agatha paused. She had never yet stood face to face in a house with death. The sensation was very awful. She glanced within at the heavy-curtained bed, and then at the fair, girlish portrait which peered through the folds at its foot--the painted eyes, eternally young, seeming to keep watch smilingly. The old man and his long-parted wife, to be together again--“within a week.” It was strange--strange. “His sons should be sent for,” hinted the doctor. “Mr. Locke Harper is in Cornwall, I believe; but the other--Major Harper----” “Frederick--Yes, we must send for Frederick,” sobbed Mary. “My father cares more for him than for any of us. Oh, poor Frederick!” “But,” Eulalie said--they were all whispering together at the door--“I don't think any one of us, not even Elizabeth, knows Frederick's address just now. A week ago he was passing through London, but he does make such a mystery of his comings and goings. Oh, if he were only here!” “Ask my father,” cried Mary--“ask him if he would like to see Frederick.” As she said this rather too loudly, there was a strange smothered sound from the bed. Agatha ran. The old Squire was gasping, choking, with the frightful effort to speak. His face was purple--his eyes wild--yet the poor bound tongue refused to obey his will. “Hush! be composed,” said his daughter-in-law, soothingly. “You shall see no one. No one shall be sent for. Will that do?” He grew calmer, but restless still. “Shall my husband come? He will do you good--he does everybody good. Would you like to see Nathanael?” A faint assent--scarcely intelligible--and then the Squire dropped off again into sleep. Agatha left him and went to his daughters, who lingered outside.