Miss Gwendolen shook her head. "The croup came on again last night worse than ever," she said, with a rising sob. "They don't know whether they will save him." Grizzel brushed away some tears as she began to beat up her eggs. She was a tender-hearted old thing, and loved little Dun. Miss Nave put aside her bonnet and shawl, and turned to the staircase to pay a visit to Nash. But she looked back to ask a question. "Then, I am to understand that you had no trouble with the master last night, Grizzel? He did not want to force himself out?" "The time for that has gone by, ma'am, I think," answered Grizzel, evasively; not daring and not wishing to confess that he had forced himself out, and what the consequences were. "He seems a deal weaker to-day, Miss Gwinny, than I've ever seen him." And when Miss Gwinny got into Nash's room she found the words true. Weak, inert, fading, there lay poor Nash. With the discovery, all struggle had ceased; and it is well known that to resign one's self to weakness quietly, makes weakness ten times more apparent. One thing struck her greatly: the hollow sound in the voice. Had it come on suddenly? If not, how was it she had never noticed it before? It struck her with a sort of unpleasant chill: for she believed that peculiar hollowness is generally the precursor of death. "You are feeling worse, Nash, Grizzel says," she observed; and she thought she had never seen him looking half so ill. "Oh, I am all right, Gwendolen," answered he. "What of Charlotte and the child?" Sitting down on the edge of the large bed, Gwendolen told him all there was to tell. Her papa would get well in time, though he could not be moved yet awhile; but Charlotte and the child were lying in extreme danger. "Dear me! dear me!" he said, and began to cry, as Grizzel had begun. When a man is reduced, as Nash was, faint in mind and in body, the tears are apt to lie near the eyes. "And there's nobody to attend upon them but Mrs. Smith and her maids--two of the stupidest country wenches you ever saw," said Gwendolen. "I did not know how to come away this morning. The child is more than one person's work." "Why did you come?" "Because I could not trust you; you know that, Nash. You want to be up to your tricks too often." "My tricks!" "Yes. Going out of doors at night. I'm sure it is a dreadful responsibility that's thrown upon me. And all for your own sake!" "You need no longer fear that--if you call my going out the responsibility. I shall never get out of this bed again, Gwinny." "What makes you think so?" "Look at me," answered Nash. "See if you think it likely. I do not." She shook her head doubtingly. He certainly did look too ill to stir--but she remembered the trouble there had been with him; the fierce, wild yearning for exit, that could not be controlled. "Are you not satisfied? Listen, then: I give you my solemn word of honour not to go out of doors; not to attempt to do so. You must go back to Charlotte and the boy."