Felix recoiled, awe-struck, shuddering. It was, indeed, a terrible moment in that empty gloomy house; the dog howling; the moonlight glittering on the glassy eye. He was a brave man; he had faced disease and danger in the exercise of his office, yet never before had the presence of death so awed him. The atmosphere of the room suddenly seemed stifling--his first instinct was to get out. He did get out, and the cool night air in the porch revived him. Then he unchained the dog, who whined and fawned upon him. His natural impulse was to run for assistance; but the thought came to him that perhaps Fisher was not really dead--quick attention might save him, and he possessed considerable medical and surgical skill. He went back to the parlour-- the dog sniffed at the threshold, but would not enter. He struck a match, and lit a large wax candle on the mantelpiece. With this he approached the beehive chair, felt the wrist, looked in the face, and knew that Andrew Fisher had gone to his account. On the carpet by his feet was a crumpled piece of pinkish paper. Felix picked it up, and found that the telegram referred to betting transactions. Then he understood that the shock of the loss he had sustained by the death of Valentine's horse had extinguished the flickering light of life in the old man. Felix took off his hat reverently, went to the great window-- unconsciously drawn towards the light--knelt and prayed earnestly. Then he covered the face with a bandana handkerchief which was lying on the knee of the deceased, and asked himself why the countenances of the very aged are so repellent in death, as if they had outlived the hope of immortality. To send for a doctor was evidently useless, nor was there one within several miles, but it was necessary that some one should be called. He went out and walked to the nearest cottage; a shepherd, with a pipe in his mouth, answered the door. It was some time before his slow intellect could grasp the idea. "Dead! be _he_ dead? Missis [to his wife within], missis! The Ould Un have got measter at last." "Hush!" said Felix angrily. "Have you no respect?" By the light of the candle his wife brought to the door, the man saw it was a clergyman, and asked pardon. "But nobody won't miss _he_," he added, nevertheless; and thought Felix, as they walked back to the house, feeling the little piece of brass in his pocket, "`Let us rejoice'--they are actually glad that he is gone. But how comes it that no one knew of this?"