"Every day, every day since, every night and nearly all night, that strange conviction has lain upon me. I know it will be fulfilled: when the hand of death is closing on us, these previsions are an instinct. As surely as that I am now disclosing this to you, Francis, so surely will you fall in some way under the iron hand of Stephen." "Perhaps you were dreaming, mother dear," suggested Francis: for he had his share of common sense. "It will be in this house; the Torr," she went on, paying no attention to him; "for it is always these rooms and the dreary trees outside that seem to lie before me. For that reason, I would not have you live here----" "But don't you think you may have been dreaming?" repeated Francis, interrupting the rest. "I was as wide awake as I am now, Francis, but I was deep in thought. It stole upon me, this impression, without any sort of warning, or any train of ideas that could have led to it; and it lies within me, a sure and settled conviction. _Beware of Stephen._ But oh, Francis! even while I give you this caution I know that you will not escape the evil--whatever it may turn out to be." "I hope I shall," he said, rather lightly. "I'll try, at any rate." "Well, I have warned you, Francis. Be always upon your guard. And keep away from the Torr, if you can." Holt, quite an aged woman now, came in with some tea for her mistress. Francis took the opportunity to go down and see his father. Mr. Radcliffe, in a shabby old coat, was sitting in his arm-chair at the parlour fire. He looked pleased to see Francis, and kept his hand for a minute after he had shaken it. "My mother is very ill, sir," said Francis. "Ay," replied the old man, dreamily. "Been so for some time now." "Can nothing be done to--to--keep her with us a little longer, father?" "I suppose not. Ask Duffham." "What the devil!--is it you! What brings _you_ here?" The coarse salutation came from Stephen. Francis turned to see him enter and bang the door after him. His shoes were dirty, his beaver gaiters splashed, and his hair was like a tangled mop. "I came down to see my father and mother," answered Francis, as he held out his hand. But Stephen did not choose to see it. Mrs. Stephen, in a straight-down blue cloth gown and black cap garnished with red flowers, looking more angular and hard than of yore, came in with the tea-tray. She did as much work in the house as a servant. Lizzy had been married the year before, and lived in Birmingham with her husband, who was curate at one of the churches there. "You'll have to sleep on the sofa to-night, young man," was Mrs. Stephen's snappish salutation to Francis. "There's not a bed in the house that's aired." "The sofa will do," he answered. "Let his bed be aired to-morrow, Becca," interposed the old man. And they stared in astonishment to hear him say it.