But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumed before—for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old—he saw that he had but a very short span to live—a year or two, or it might be three or four years. The last page of his life was all but turned, the book was near its end. Two or three years and all that he treasured would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care and affection, and to the last he must be dependent. A little while and she would be alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his lands and his people for more than half a century would be a memory. A memory of what? Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her little head pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, her prayers beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; but a dear fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. It was his duty to deny her. It was for him to order, for her to obey. And yet, “He saved your life!” that cry so oft repeated, so often dinned into his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he was aware of it he was wondering what manner of man this young fellow was, what spell he had woven about the girl, whence his power over her. And why had the man been silent about that night? Had he in truth intended to beard him and claim her in the road that morning—when they met? He remembered it. The son of that man, Ovington! Lord Almighty! It could hardly be worse. And yet “He saved your life!” The Squire could not get over that—if it were true. If it were really true. He thought upon it long, forced out of the usual current of his life. Miss Peacock, bringing up his frugal luncheon, found him silent, sunk low in his chair, his chin upon his breast. So he appeared when anyone stole in during the next two hours to attend to the fire or to light his pipe. Calamy, safe outside the door, uttered his misgivings. “It’s the torpor,” he told Miss Peacock, shaking his head. “That’s how it takes them before the end, miss. I’ve seen it often. The torpor! He’ll not be long now!” Miss Peacock scolded the butler, but was none the less impressed, and presently she sought Josina, who was lying down in her room with a headache. She imparted her fears to the girl, and unwillingly Jos rose, and bathed her face and tidied her hair, and by and by came out. She must take up the burden of life again. By that time Miss Peacock had disappeared, and Josina went down alone. Half-way down the upper flight she halted, for she heard a slow, heavy step descending the stairs below her. She looked down the well of the staircase, and to her astonishment she saw her father going down before her, stair by stair, his hand on the rail, a paper and his stick in the other hand. It was not the first time that he had done such a thing, but hitherto some one had always gone with him, to aid him should aid be necessary.