[Illustration: “Oh Claire, Claire, my little Claire, are you going to die?”--_Page 200._] And the good woman, seeing the strange alteration which came over Bram’s face as he raised his eyes from the girl’s face to hers as if he had come back from another world, changed her rough touch to a gentle pat of his shoulder, and turned away sobbing. Bram lifted Claire from the floor with the easy strength of which his spare, lean frame gave no promise, and placed her tenderly on the bed. Then he held one of her hands for a moment, leaned over her, and kissed her forehead with the lingering but calm tenderness of a mother to her babe. “A’ reght,” muttered he to Joan, falling once more into the broad Yorkshire he had dropped for so long, “Ah’m going.” At the foot of the stairs he was brought suddenly to full remembrance of the hard, matter-of-fact world of every day. Mr. Cornthwaite was standing, cold and grave, buttoning up his coat, ready to go. “Where are you going?” asked he shortly. “For the doctor again, sir. Meg has nearly done for her, for Miss Claire.” Mr. Cornthwaite uttered a short exclamation, which might have been meant to express compassion, but which was more like indifference, or even satisfaction. So Bram felt, in a sudden transport of anger. “And the old man--Mr. Biron, what did she do to him?” Bram was silent. He remembered Meg’s ferocious words, her triumphant cry that she had killed both the woman and the man she hated; and as the remembrance came back he turned quickly, and went in the direction of Theodore’s room. But Mr. Biron was lying quietly in bed, apparently unaware that anything extraordinary had happened. For when he saw Bram he only asked if he were going to stay with him. Bram excused himself, and left the room. “Mr. Biron’s all right, sir,” he said to Mr. Cornthwaite, who had by this time reached the door, impatient to get away. The only answer he got was a nod as Mr. Cornthwaite went out of the house. Bram had not to go far before he found some one to run his errand for him, so that he was able to return to the house. His mind was full of a strange new thought, one so startling that it took time to assimilate it. He sat for a long time by the kitchen fire, turning the idea over in his mind, until the doctor returned, and went away again, after reporting that Claire was not so much injured by the woman’s violence as might have been feared. It was very late when a nurse, the only one to be got on the spur of the moment, arrived at the farmhouse. Bram was still sitting by the kitchen fire. When she had been installed upstairs Joan came down for a little while. “What, you here still, Mr. Elshaw?” cried she. “Well, you might have known I should be,” he answered with a faint smile. “I’m here till I’m turned out, day and night now!” “Why, sir, ye’d best goa whoam,” said Joan kindly. “Ye can do no good, and Ah won’t leave her, ye may be sure. Ah’ve sent word whoam as they mun do wi’out me till t’ mornin’.”