And all the while fresh dishes were being carried in from the kitchen, and Mr. Heriot’s laugh, a large sound of ease and relief--the gaiety of a man just delivered from deadly anxiety--rang like a certainty of well-being all through the house. The breakfast was still going on when the doctor went downstairs; his grave face startled Tom’s father. “You find your patient better, doctor?” he said. “I cannot say I do,” the doctor answered, somewhat solemnly. “Though his strength has held out better than I thought.” “But I assure you--the boy is looking as well as I ever saw him. His colour is good, and his eyes bright; and no suffering to speak of.” “The explanation of that is but too easy,” said the doctor. “I suppose no one has told you the particulars. So long as there was pain there was a little hope. It is a hard thing to say to a father, but I must say it. Your son’s injury, Sir, is in the spine.” “My God!” Mr. Heriot stumbled up blindly from his chair; he put his hand out to grope his way to the door, and with the other thrust away from him the table at which he had been seated. The doctor rushed after and seized him by the arm. “If you go into his room with that face, you will kill him on the spot!” he cried. “And when will you--or nature, as you call it--kill him?” cried Mr. Charles, coming forward in his turn. “Thomas, my man, Thomas! you’ve still the others left.” “He may last a few hours longer--not more,” said the doctor. “I shall come back presently;” and he rushed away, glad to escape from such a scene, and left those whom it most concerned to bear it as they could. The two old brothers had taken each other by the hand. They stood together as they had done when they were boys; but one had his face hidden on the wall, against which he leant and heard the words of the other vaguely through his anguish, as if they were uttered miles away. “Thomas! think. He is not your only child! there are others well worthy of your love. We must grieve--it’s God’s will; but for God’s sake dinna despair!” What mockery the words seemed; merest commonplaces, easy to say, but hard, impossible to give an ear to. Despair? what else was there left for the man who was about to see his son die? CHAPTER VI. He lingered the greater part of the day. Marjory took her place permanently by his bedside, where Fanshawe had been seated when she first appeared. She had allowed herself to be entreated to say nothing to him; but a certain fixed awe and pain in her look communicated themselves to Tom’s mind without a word said. He noticed this at first with an uneasy laugh. “Ah, I see you think badly of me, May. You think I am going, though I deceive myself. Don’t deny it. If I was not so sure by my feelings that you are wrong, you would make me think so too.” “I am anxious,” she said. “You know what papa says, Tom, it is a woman’s fault.”