"No," answered Madam Carroll, with the same measured utterance; "the Major must not be troubled, his comfort must always be first. But as he is generally tired on Sunday evenings, perhaps he will go to bed early. I must wait, in any case, until he is asleep." "Mamma, you cannot bear it," urged Sara, following her. "Instead of saying that, you should tell me if there is hope--hope that I may not be too late," said Madam Carroll almost sternly, putting aside the girl's outstretched hands. "I think he may not--they said he would not--Mrs. Walley said, 'He will pass at dawn,'" answered Sara, using the mountain phrase. "I may then be in time," said Madam Carroll, in the same calm voice. She turned the handle of the door. "You had better join us soon. Your father has been asking for you." She went in, closing the door behind her. When Sara entered, fifteen minutes later, she found her singing the evening hymn to the Major. The Major liked to have her sing that hymn on Sunday evenings, and Scar liked it too, because he could join in with his soft little alto. "The day is past and gone, The evening shades appear; O may we all remember well The night of death draws near," sang the wife, in her sweet voice, sitting close to her husband's chair, so that he could hear the words. Not long afterwards the Major said he was tired; it was not often that he was tired so early in the evening, but to-night, for some reason, he felt quite weary; he thought he would go to bed. It was half-past eight; at nine he and Scar were both asleep, and the two women left the house together. Walley's Cove was not far from the Farms, but it was farther up the mountain, where there was no road, only paths; they could not, therefore, go in the carriage; they could have taken Caleb Inches with them, but in that peaceful neighborhood escort for mere safety's sake was not necessary, and they preferred to be alone. "Take my arm, mamma," said Sara, as they began to ascend. But Madam Carroll would not. She walked on unaided. Her step was firm. She did not once speak. In the small room under the roof, which he had occupied since his return, lay the young man who was now dying; for it needed but one glance to show that the summons had come: he was passing away. The farmer's wife, much affected, knelt beside him; the doctor had gone, she said, but a short time before; there was nothing more that he could do, and he was needed elsewhere. The farmer himself was fanning the unconscious face. Madam Carroll took the fan. "Let me do that," she said. "I know you feel as if your children were needing you down-stairs."