“If you are looking for Joan, sir, to say good-bye to her, it is no use, for she’s in her room there sleeping like the dead, and I couldn’t wake her. I don’t think she is quite herself, somehow; but she’ll be sorry to miss you, and so shall I, for the matter of that; but I’ll tell her.” “Thank you, thank you—for everything,” he answered hastily, and they started. The drive was long and the road rough, having been much washed by recent rains; but after a fashion Henry enjoyed it, so far as his pressing troubles of mind would allow him to enjoy anything, for it was a lovely morning, and the breath of the open air, the first that he had tasted for many weeks, was like wine to him. On the way he learned from his companion all that there was to be told about his father. It appeared, as Henry had heard already, that he had been unwell for the last two months—not in a way to give alarm, though sufficiently to prevent him from leaving the house except on the finest days, or at times his room. On the previous day, however, he seemed much better, and dined downstairs. About ten o’clock he went to bed, and slept soundly till a little past midnight, when the household was aroused by the violent ringing of Lady Graves’s bell, and they rushed upstairs to find that Sir Reginald had been seized with a fit. Dr. Childs was sent for at once, and gave an opinion that death might occur at any moment. His treatment restored the patient’s consciousness; and Sir Reginald’s first words expressed the belief that he was dying, and an earnest wish to see his son, whereupon Edward, who chanced to be spending the night at Rosham, was despatched with the brake to Bradmouth. At length they reached the Hall, and Henry was helped from the vehicle; but in ascending the stone steps, which he insisted upon doing by himself, one of his crutches slipped, causing the foot of his injured limb to come down with some force upon the edge of the step. The accident gave him considerable pain, but he saved himself from falling, and thought little more of it at the time. In the dining-room he found Ellen, who looked pale, and seemed relieved to see him. “How is my father?” he asked. “Insensible again just now. But I am so glad that you have come, Henry, for he has been asking for you continually. All this business about the property seems to weigh more upon his mind now than it has done for years, and he wants to speak to you on the subject.” Then his mother came down, and her eyes were red with weeping. “You have returned to a sad home, Henry,” she said kissing him. “We are an unlucky family: death and misfortune are always at our doors. You look very white, my dear boy, and no wonder. You had better try to eat something, since it is useless for you to attempt to see your poor father at present.”