For this Lucius waited, never leaving his post by the narrow hospital bed. It was important that he should be at hand, to hear whatever this man might have to say—most important that he should receive from these lips the secret of Lucille’s parentage. All that care or skill could do to alleviate Ferdinand Sivewright’s sufferings Lucius did, patiently, kindly, and waited for the end, strong in his trust in Providence. ‘Better that he should perish thus by the visitation of God than by my hand,’ he said to himself, with deepest thankfulness. He telegraphed to his sister, asking her to come to London immediately, and to bring Lucille with her. They were to travel by a particular train, and to go straight to his house, where he would meet them. Painful as the scene would be to both, he deemed it best that both should hear this man’s last words; that Lucille should be told by his own lips that he was not her father; that Janet should hear the truth about her unhappy marriage, from him who alone had power to enlighten her. It was to give to both a bitter memory; but it was to relieve the minds of both from doubt and misconception. A little before the hour at which Lucius expected the arrival of Janet and Lucille, the dying man awoke to consciousness. Lucius at once resolved not to leave him. He wrote a few lines to Janet, begging her to come on with Lucille to the hospital, and dispatched the note by a messenger. Ferdinand Sivewright looked about him for a little while with a dull half-conscious wonder. Then with that bitter smile which Lucius remembered years ago in the log-hut, he said slowly. ‘Another hospital! I thought I’d had enough of them. I’ve been laid by the heels often enough. Once in Mexico; another time in British Columbia, when those Canadian trappers picked me up, half dead with frost-bites and with a bullet through my shoulder, a mile or so from that villanous log-hut, and carried me on to the nearest settlement. Yes, I thought I’d had enough of sick beds and strange faces.’ Presently his eyes turned slowly towards Lucius. He looked at him for a little while with a lazy stare; then with a sudden fierceness in the dark fever-bright eyes. ‘_You!_’ he cried; ‘you, that sent that bullet into my shoulder! It must be a bad dream that brings you to my bedside.’ ‘I am here to help and not to hurt you,’ answered Lucius quietly. ‘The end of your life is so near that there is no time for enmity. I saved you last night from becoming a parricide; and afterwards helped to rescue you from a horrible death under the ruins of the house you had invaded. If it is possible for such a nature as yours to feel remorse for the past or apprehension for the future, give the few remaining hours of your life to penitence and prayer.’ ‘What, am I doomed?’ ‘Yes, your hours are numbered. Medical skill can do nothing, except to make your end a little easier.’