"Don't kneel there, lovey," she whispered--"It's no good and you're in the way when they open the door. Come with me!--there's a dear!"--and she drew the trembling little figure tenderly into her arms. "There!--that'll be a bit warmer!" and she signed to one of the farm maids near her to fetch a cloak which she carefully wrapped round the girl's shoulders. Just then the hammer was brought with other tools, and Robin, to save any needless clamour, took a chisel and inserted it in such a manner as should most easily force the catch of the door--but the lock was an ancient and a strong one, and would not yield for some time. At last, with an extra powerful and dexterous movement of his hand, it suddenly gave way--and he saw what he would have given worlds that Innocent should not have seen--old Hugo lying face forward on the floor, motionless. There was a rush and a wild cry-- "Dad! Dad!" She was beside him in a moment, trying with all her slight strength to lift his head and turn his face. "Help me--oh, help me!" she wailed. "He has fainted--we must lift him--get some one to lift him on the bed. It is only a faint--he will recover--get some brandy and send for the doctor. Don't lose time!--for Heaven's sake be quick! Robin, make them hurry!" Robin had already whispered his orders,--and two of the farm lads, roused from sleep and hastily summoned, were ready to do what he told them. With awed, hushed movements they lifted the heavy fallen body of their master between them and laid it gently down on the bed. As the helpless head dropped back on the pillow they saw that all was over,--the pinched ashen grey of the features and the fast glazing eyes told their own fatal story--there was no hope. But Innocent held the cold hand of the dead man to her warm young bosom, endeavouring to take from it its cureless chill. "He will be better soon," she said,--"Priscilla, bring me that brandy--just a little will revive him, I'm sure. Why do you stand there crying? You surely don't think he's dead?--No, no, that isn't possible! It isn't possible, is it, Robin? He'll come to himself in a few minutes--a fainting fit may last quite a long time. I wish he had not locked his door--we could have been with him sooner." So she spoke, tremblingly nursing the dead hand in her bosom. No one present had the heart to contradict her--and Priscilla, with the tears running down her face, brought the brandy she asked for and held it while she tenderly moistened the lips of the corpse and tried to force a few drops between the clenched teeth--in vain. This futile attempt frightened her, and she looked at Robin Clifford with a wild air. "I cannot make him swallow it," she said--"Can you, Robin? He looks so grey and cold!--but his lips are quite warm." Robin, restraining the emotion that half choked him and threatened to overflow in womanish weeping, went up to her and tried to coax her away from the bedside.