"Then it will be quite right, Mr. Rymer. Why should you be taking it in this way?" "I am ill," was all he answered. "I caught a chill going round to the Plough and Harrow. So far as mental illness goes, we may battle with it to the end, strength from above being given to us; but when it takes bodily form--why, there's nothing for it but giving in." Even while we spoke, he was seized with what seemed to be an ague. Mrs. Rymer appeared with some scalding broth, and I said I would run for Darbyshire. * * * * * A few days went on, and then news came up to Crabb Cot that Mr. Rymer lay dying. Robert Ashton, riding back from the hunt in his scarlet coat and white cords on his fine grey horse (the whole a mass of splashes with the thaw) pulled up at the door to say How d'ye do? and mentioned it amidst other items. It was just a shock to the Squire, and nothing less. "Goodness preserve us!--and all through that miserable five-pound note, Johnny!" he cried in a wild flurry. "Where's my hat and top-coat?" Away to Timberdale by the short cut through the Ravine, never heeding the ghost--although its traditional time of appearing, the dusk of evening, was drawing on--went the Squire. He thought Rymer must be ill through fear of him; and he accused me of having done my errand of peace badly. It was quite true--Thomas Rymer lay dying. Darbyshire was coming out of the house as the Squire reached it, and said so. Instead of being sorry, he flew in a passion and attacked the doctor. "Now look you here, Darbyshire--this won't do. We can't have people dying off like this for nothing. If you don't cure him, you had better give up doctoring." "How d'you mean for nothing?" asked Darbyshire, who knew the Squire well. "It can't be for much: don't be insolent. Because a man gets a bit of anxiety on his mind, is he to be let die?" "I've heard nothing about anxiety," said Darbyshire. "He caught a chill through going out that day of the snow-storm, and it settled on a vital part. That's what ails him, Squire." "And you can't cure the chill! Don't tell me." "Before this time to-morrow, Thomas Rymer will be where there's neither killing nor curing," was the answer. "I told them yesterday to send for the son: but they don't know where he is." The Squire made a rush through the shop and up to the bedroom, hardly saying, "With your leave," or, "By your leave." Thomas Rymer lay in bed at the far end; his white face whiter than the pillow; his eyes sunken; his hands plucking at the counterpane. Margaret left the room when the Squire went in. He gave one look; and knew that he saw death there. "Rymer, I'd almost have given my own life to save you from this," cried he, in the shock. "Oh, my goodness! what's to be done?" "I seem to have been waiting for it all along; to have seen the exposure coming," said Thomas Rymer, his faint fingers resting in the Squire's strong ones. "And now that it's here, I can't battle with it."