She turned at that with terror in her eyes; she laid a small, strong hand upon the doctor's arm and clung to it convulsively. "She must live to see St. Udo Brand," said she, in a low, thrilling voice. "She must, I tell you--it is her dearest, her last wish--it is my most earnest prayer. Surely you will not let her die before that wish is fulfilled?" She gazed with passionate entreaty in the little doctor's face, and her voice rose into a wail at the last words. He regarded her with helpless sympathy and shook his head. "She can't live half an hour longer," said Dr. Gay. "She'll not see St. Udo Brand." A fierce shudder seized Margaret Walsingham from head to foot. The blood forsook her lips, the light her eyes--she stood silent, the picture of heart-sick despair. She had often appealed to Dr. Gay's admiration by her faithfulness, her kindness, her timidly masked self-sacrifices; she appealed straight to his heart now by her patient suffering, unconscious as he was of its cause. "I will do what I can to keep up her strength," he said, approaching the bed to gaze anxiously again at the slumberer. "I will try another stimulant, if I can only get her to swallow it. Perhaps the London train may be here by that time." "Thank you! oh, thank you!" murmured Margaret; gratefully. "You little know the desperate need there is for Mrs. Brand seeing her grandson before she dies." Tears welled to her eloquent eyes, her lips trembled distressfully, she waved the servants from the room and followed them out. "Symonds, I wish you to hasten immediately to Regis for Mr. Davenport, the lawyer," said she, when she had dismissed the other servants down stairs. "Give him this note and drive him back here as quickly as you can drive." She dropped her note into the groom's hand, and watched him from the oriel hall window, as he hurried from the court below, out into the deepening twilight, from the road which went to the pretty little village of Regis, some two miles distant. She stood in the waning light, watching for the lawyer's coming, and her thoughts were wild and bitter. She had a _doom_ to confront, as terrible to her as unsought martyrdom is to the quailing victim of a blinded hate; a _doom_ from which she fain would court grim death himself if he would open his gates to let her escape; a humiliating and revolting _doom_ from which she recoiled with vehement dislike, every nerve in her high-strung frame quivering with horror. Ethel Brand had ever been capricious in her life, but of all the mad, impulsive freaks which her lonely heart had led her into, her last caprice was the most ill-advised, the most disastrous.