Leet was too old and slow of movement to be entrusted with the summoning of Dr. Paine; and Trent, who slept in one of the outer buildings, was aroused and despatched forthwith, with orders to use all possible speed, as they feared the master was already dead or dying. They carried him at once to his own bed, where he lay unconscious, with no change in his appearance or breathing; and his son, sitting beside him, gazed with agonized eyes upon the white face lying against the pillows, his own face almost as white, and seeming to have aged under this flood of sorrow now opened in their midst. It was well along toward morning, although yet dark, with the sky cloudless and gemmed with stars, before Dr. Paine arrived. The first thing the bustling little man did was to bleed his patient, as was then the practice in treating most ailments. Its present efficacy was soon apparent, for it was not long before the labored, irregular breathing became more natural and the old man opened his eyes. But there was an unusual look in them,--one that never went away. And although after a time he recovered some of his strength, and was able to go about the house, the hale, rugged health and vigorous manhood were gone forever, and Joseph Devereux remained but a shadow of his former self. His days were all alike,--passed in sitting before the fire downstairs, or else dozing in his own room; and he had neither care nor thought for the matters that had once been of such moment to him. The others were with him constantly, to guard against possible accident or harm, as well as to do all in their power in smoothing the way for the loved one they felt was soon to leave them. And he, as well as themselves, albeit he never spoke of it, seemed to understand this,--that they, like him, were waiting for the end, when he should be summoned by the voice none can deny. And thus he remained day after day, spending much of his time with the other members of his family,--listening apparently to all they might say to him or to one another; but sitting with silent lips, and eyes that seemed to grow larger and more wondrous in expression and light, as if already looking into that mysterious world,-- "Beyond the journeyings of the sun, Where streams of living waters run,"-- that world whose glories no speech might convey to earthly understanding. "I can never tell him now," Dorothy said with bitter sorrow, addressing Mary, as the two were alone in the dining-room. It was one of the days when her father had risen for his morning meal, and, after sitting with them awhile, had returned to his room to lie down. "'T is best not, dear," Mary assented. "Do not burden his heart now, for it would only give him bitter sorrow to brood over. Jack knows the whole matter, and he can do all that is to be done." "And what is that?" Dorothy asked, speaking a little sharply. "Call the man to a strict account," was Mary's reply, with anger now showing in her voice.