It was dark when he arrived; but out of the darkness which surrounded the terminus there came the friendly voice of a groom and the glare of carriage-lamps. "Ah, is that you, Moyle? Is my father any better?" His heart sank as he asked the question, with agonizing dread of the reply. "No, sir; I'm afraid he ain't no better. The doctor from Abbeytown is coming again to-night. Will you drive, sir?" "No. Get me home as fast as you can, for God's sake!" "Yes, sir. I brought your old bay mare. She's the fastest we've got." "Poor old Kitty! Good to the last, is she? Get on." They were bowling along the level road behind bay Kitty, the first hunter Allan had bought on his own account in his old college days, when his liberal allowance enabled him to indulge his taste in horseflesh. Kitty had distinguished herself in a small way as a steeplechaser before Allan picked her up at Tattersall's, and she was an elderly person when he came into his fortune; so he had left her in the home stables as a general utility horse. Kitty carried him along the road at a splendid pace, and hardly justified impatience even in the most anxious heart. His mother was waiting in the porch when he alighted. "Dear mother," he said, as he kissed and soothed her and led her into the house, "why do you stand out in the cold? You are shivering." "Not with cold, Allan." "Poor mother! Is he very ill? Is it really so serious?" "It could not be more serious, Allan. They thought this morning that he was dying. They told me--to be prepared--for the worst." The sentence was broken by sobs. She hid her face on her son's breast and sobbed out her grief unchecked by him, only soothed by the gentle pressure of his arm surrounding and, as it were, protecting her from the invincible enemy. "Doctors are such alarmists, mother; they often take fright too soon." "Not in this case, Allan; I was with him all through his sufferings. I saw him struggling with death. I knew how near death was in those dreadful hours. It is his heart, Allan. You remember Dr. Arnold's death--how we have cried over the story in Stanley's book. It was like that--sudden, intense suffering. Yesterday he was sitting in his library, placid and at ease among his books. We dined together last night. He was cheerful and full of interesting talk. And this morning at daybreak he was fighting for his life. It was terrible." "But the danger is past, mother. The struggle is over, please God, and he will be well again." "Never, never again, Allan. The doctors hold out little hope of that. The awful agony may return at any hour. The mischief is deep seated. We have been living in a fool's paradise. Oh, my dear son, I never knew how fondly I have loved your father till to-day. I thought we should grow old together, go down to the grave hand-in-hand." "Dear mother, hope for the best. I cannot think--remembering how young a man he seemed the other day at Beechhurst--I cannot think that we are to lose him."