There was a sweet resignation, coupled with a brave resolve to fight the trouble of the moment, which went straight to the doctor’s heart. The phaeton was pulled up at the principal entrance to the mansion. The old squire was at the door to bid her welcome, and Lucy Blyth, the blacksmith’s daughter, crossed the threshold of Waverdale Hall. CHAPTER XXVI. DR. JEPHSON’S PRESCRIPTION WORKS WONDERS. “She is coming, my own, my sweet! Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed: My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.” _Tennyson._ Lucy Blyth was conducted with softened footfall and bated breath into the darkened chamber of the helpless invalid. She bent over him and heard the monotonous and untiring moan. She was more shocked than words can express to see how the fine stalwart youth had been laid low. His hair was close shaven, and his lacklustre eyes were sunk far into his head, while the cheekbones stood prominent as those of a skeleton, and the poor thin hands, that were clutching nervously at the coverlet, were bloodless as a stone. Lucy’s heart sank within her; the doctor, the nurse, and the squire softly turned away; sinking on a chair by the bedside she burst into a flood of silent tears. The precious relief to her pent-up soul was of infinite value to her. After her grief had spent its force, she rose, bathed her face and hands in cold water, and turning to the bed, took the poor listless fingers of her lover in her own. “Philip! dear Philip!” she said, softly. The fingers closed convulsively; a sigh, which sounded like a gasp, broke from his lips. Fixing wondering eyes on her, he whispered, “Lucy! dear Lucy!” and this with a smile of rapturous content. What cared she in that moment who were lookers-on? What cared she that the stately squire was standing on tiptoe by the door, looking with the eyes of his soul for the crisis? What would she have cared had all Waverdale been standing by? Love, imperial love, asserted its unequalled rights. That ebbing life was flowing back beneath her royal power! That soul upon the wing was re-folding its pinions at her command! Stooping down she signed his reprieve upon his parched lips. If any of my readers object to this, they have my full permission to close these pages and go their way. I write not for those behind whose vest and beneath whose bodice there beats no human heart, but only the tick of a machine; but for those who hold that pure and true affection has rights which may not be invaded, and that in a case like this “Love is lord of all.” In the course of another day or two, Dr. Jephson reported a stronger pulse and a brighter eye, and bade the grateful father hope for the best. The old man listened in silence, scarcely daring to believe. “What is your opinion, Miss Blyth?” said the doctor.