There was a tap at the door, and the doctor appeared: a little, old, white-haired man, of sharp and punctilious demeanour. Behind him was the landlady, hanging back somewhat as if it were for further instructions; so, she being there to help, Vincent thought he would go downstairs and seek out Maisrie. He found her in the little parlour—awaiting him. "What do you think, Vincent?" she said, quickly. "I haven’t spoken to the doctor yet," he made answer. "Of course, everyone can see that your grandfather is very ill; but if courage will serve, who could have a better chance? And I will tell you this, Maisrie, he is likely to have more peace of mind now. He has been vexing himself about many things, as you guessed; and although he was wandering a good deal while I was with him—perhaps all the time—I could not quite make sure—still, it is wonderful how he has argued these matters out, and how clearly you can follow his meaning. It was about you and your future he was most troubled—in the event of anything happening to him; and he has not been afraid to look all possibilities in the face; he told me the doors of the _domus exilis Plutonia_ had stood wide open before him, and I know he was not the one to be alarmed, for himself. But about you, Maisrie: do you know that he has given you over to me—if the worst comes to the worst? He asked me to provide a home for you: I told him it was already there, awaiting you. You see I have not forgotten what you said to me at Brighton; and I knew that some day you and I should find ourselves, as we now find ourselves, face to face—perhaps in sad circumstances, but all the more dependent on each other——" "Do you think he is so very ill, Vincent?" she said: she seemed to have no thought of herself—only of her grandfather. "You must see he is very ill, Maisrie—very," he answered her. "But, as I say, if splendid courage will serve, then you may hope for the best. And he ought to be quieter in mind now. We will hear what the doctor has to say——" But at this moment there was an unwonted sound without in the still little village—the sound of carriage-wheels on the stony street; and presently some vehicle, itself unseen, was heard to stop in front of the inn. In another second or so, a servant-girl opened the door of the parlour and timidly said to Maisrie— "Miss Bethune, Miss." "Miss Bethune?" Maisrie repeated, wondering. "From the Castle, Miss," the girl said, in awe-stricken tones. And it was curious that at such a crisis Maisrie’s eyes should turn instinctively to Vincent—as if to appeal for advice. Of course his decision was taken on the instant. "Ask Miss Bethune to step this way, then," he said to the girl.