"Oh, he's at home," was the answer. "He has hardly stirred out-of-doors for a week, and Shuttleworth says he's done to death with the work." Going in as readily as though he had not left the house for a day, Dr. Knox found Mr. Tamlyn in the dining-room: the pretty room that looked to the garden and the fountain. He was sitting by the fire, his hand rumpling his grey hair: a sure sign that he was in some bother or tribulation. In the not quite four months that had passed since Dr. Knox left him, he had changed considerably: his hair was greyer, his face thinner. "Is it you, Arnold? I am glad. I thought you'd come if you could." Dr. Knox drew a chair near the fire, and sat down. "Your letter gave me concern," he said. "And what do you mean by talking about a peck of trouble?" "A peck of trouble!" echoed Mr. Tamlyn. "I might have said a bushel. I might have said a ton. There's trouble on all sides, Arnold." "Can I help you out of it in any way?" "With some of it, I hope you can: it's why I sent for you. But not with all: not with the worst. Bertie's dying, Arnold." "I hope not!" "As truly as that we are here talking to one another, I believe him to be literally dying," repeated the surgeon, solemnly, his eyes filling and his voice quivering with pain. "He has dropped asleep, and Bessy sent me out of the room: my sighs wake him, she says. I can't help sighing, Arnold: and sometimes the sigh ends with a groan, and I can't help that." Dr. Knox didn't see his way clear to making much answer just here. "I've detected the change in him for a month past; in my inward heart I felt sure he could not live. Do you know what your father used to say, Arnold? He always said that if Bertie lived over his sixteenth or seventeenth year, he'd do; but the battle would be just about that time. Heaven knows, I attached no importance to the opinion: I have hardly thought of it: but he was right, you see. Bertie would be seventeen next July, if he were to live." "I'm sure I am very grieved to hear this--and to see your sorrow," spoke Arnold. "He is _so_ changed!" resumed Mr. Tamlyn, in a low voice. "You remember how irritable he was, poor fellow?--well, all that has gone, and he is like an angel. So afraid of giving trouble; so humble and considerate to every one! It was this change that first alarmed me." "When did it come on?" "Oh, weeks ago. Long before there was much change for the worse to be _seen_ in him. Only this morning he held my hand, poor lad, and--and----" Mr. Tamlyn faltered, coughed, and then went on again more bravely. "He held my hand between his, Arnold, and said he thought God had forgiven him, and how happy it would all be when we met in heaven. For a long while now not a day has passed but he has asked us to forgive him for his wicked tempers--that's his word for it, wicked--the servants, and all." "Is he in much pain?"