“Nothing of the sort,” he cried, pushing her away by the shoulder he had grasped; “nothing the matter with me--that is, nothing out of the ordinary. Come here, you nurse. I want to lie on the other side. Nothing like a woman that knows what she is about and has her living to make by it. Dear they are--cost a lot of money--but I never begrudged money for comfort.” “Papa,” said Katherine. What could she say? What words were possible to break this spell, this unconsciousness and ignorance? It seemed to her that he was about to fall over some dreadful precipice without knowing it, without fearing it; was it better that he should know it, that he should fear, when he was incapable of anything else? Should the acute pang of mortal alarm before be added to--whatever there might be afterwards? Wild words whirled through her head--about the great judgment seat, about the reckoning with men for what they had done, and the cry of the Prophet, “Prepare to meet thy God.” But how could this restless old man prepare for anything, turning and returning upon his bed. “Papa,” she repeated, “have you anything to say to me--nothing about--about Stella?” He turned his face to her for a moment with the old familiar chuckle in his throat. “About Stella--oh, you will hear plenty about Stella--in time,” he said. “Not only about Stella, papa! Oh, about other things, about--about--” she cried in a kind of despair, “about God.” “Oh,” he said, “you think I’m going to die.” The chuckle came again, an awful sound. “I’m not; you were always a little fool. Tell her, doctor, I’m going to sleep--tuck in the clothes, nurse, and put--out--the light.” The last words fell from him drowsily, and calm succeeded to the endless motion. There was another little murmur as of a laugh. Then the nurse nodded her head from the other side of the bed, to show that he was really going to sleep. Dr. Burnet put his hand on Katherine’s arm and drew her into the dressing-room, leaving the door open between. “It may last only a few minutes,” he said, “or it may last for ever; but we can do nothing, neither you nor I. Sit down and wait here.” It did last for ever. The sleep at first was interrupted with little wakings, and that chuckle which had been the accompaniment of his life broke in two or three times, ghastly, with a sort of sound of triumph. And then all sound died away. Katherine was awakened--she did not know if it was from a doze or a dream--by a touch upon her arm. The doctor stood there in his large and heavy vitality like an embodiment of life, and a faint blueness of dawn was coming in at the window. “There was no pain,” he said, “no sort of suffering or struggle. Half-past four exactly,” he had his watch in his hand. “And now, Miss Tredgold, take this and go to bed.” “Do you mean?” Katherine cried, rising hastily, then falling back again in extreme agitation, trembling from head to foot.