'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em all.' 'Hush! I do hear wheels. Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up a bit.' The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's carriage was driving down to the farm. The bystanders drew back as it rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door. Rowland got out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him. He went into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards. Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,--'Your mother is still alive.' 'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and wringing the hand that pressed his. 'Is there any hope?' he asked of Dr Richards. 'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to say--if we could rouse her?' 'I may go upstairs?' 'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the outer room.' Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times; he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside, groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father. He went up softly to him and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and mother lay. Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently vacated for him. He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and fever of the past week. He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept silently. Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still continued to find a passage down the throat. Mrs Jonathan Prothero crept softly up to Rowland, and put her hand in his--Owen came to him--his uncle--all were there. But as soon as he had recovered from his temporary emotion, he went to his father's side, who had seated himself on a chair behind the curtain of the bed, and tried to comfort him. The presence of his second son was in itself a consolation to poor Mr Prothero; but he could not listen to his words. 'Pray for your mother, Rowland,' was all he could say. Rowland knelt down with all those present, except Gladys, who joined in spirit and prayed. Never before had he known what it was to use the prayers of his church for one so dear to him; never before had he felt the great difficulty of reading them when his emotion nearly choked his utterance. But as priest and son he prayed fervently for his mother. Mr Prothero seemed calmer after he rose from his knees, and ventured to lean over his wife to assure himself that she still breathed. There was an occasional slight pulsation scarcely to be called breath.