Florence shrieked, and sprung to her father's side. Mary was bending over the moaning woman, but turned suddenly, and saw her uncle stretched at Florence's feet. He was insensible, and a stream of blood oozed from his lips. They raised his head, and motioned to the Mexicans, that now gathered round, for water; some was hastily procured, and then Mary entreated one of them to go for Dr. Bryant: as she spoke, the tramp of hoofs caused her to look up, and she perceived him urging his horse toward them. He flung the reins to a man who stood near, and bent over the prostrate form. "There is some internal injury, I see no outward wound; how did this happen?" Florence briefly explained the manner in which her father received a kick on the chest. Happily, they were near their own home, and, with the assistance of two men, Dr. Bryant carefully bore him in, and laid him on a couch near the open window. A restorative was administered, and soon the sufferer opened his eyes. The flow of blood had ceased, but he lay quite exhausted. The physician examined the wounded place, and assured Florence there was no fracture. "I am afraid some blood-vessel is ruptured?" said she, anxiously. "It is only a small one, I hope, but cannot tell certainly for several days. He must be perfectly quiet; the least excitement might prove fatal, by causing a fresh hemorrhage." Nearly a week passed, and one evening Mary followed the physician as he left the house: he heard her step, and turned. His usually laughing countenance was grave and anxious; but he strove to seem cheerful. "Doctor, I wish to know what you think of my uncle's case; we are afraid it is more serious than you at first pronounced it?" "It is better that you should know the worst. I am pained to grieve you, but candor compels me to say, that a fatal injury has been inflicted. I hoped for the best, but an examination this evening confirmed my fears." Mary sobbed bitterly and long. Dr. Bryant sought not to comfort her by exciting false hopes, but paced up and down the gravel-walk beside her. "You do not fear a rapid termination of the disorder?" she said at last, in a low, trembling tone. "He may linger some days, but I do not think it probable that he will." "Florry, Florry! what is to become of us?" cried the weeping girl, in a voice of agony. "Oh, God! spare him to us!" "Do you think your cousin comprehends her father's danger?" "She fears the worst, and requested me this evening to ask your opinion. Oh, how can I tell her that he must die!" "Do not crush all hope (though I have none); let her believe that he may recover. She is not of a temperament to bear prolonged agony. The shock will be less painful, rest assured. Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you both." And pressing her hand, he withdrew. CHAPTER VIII. "See! the dappled gray coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, And chase it through the sky!" MARSTON.