‘For more than a week; but I am not tired. I think when the mind is so anxious the body has no capability of feeling fatigue.’ ‘You will find the reaction very severe by-and-by, I fear,’ Mr. Treverton replied; and Trimmer, the old butler, having appeared by this time with a candle, he wished Miss Malcolm good-night. The room to which Trimmer led John Treverton was on the other side of the house--a large room, with a comfortable fire blazing on the hearth, and reflecting itself in a border of old Dutch tiles. Late as it was, Mr. Treverton sat by the fire thinking for a long time before he went to bed, and even when he did lie down under the shadow of the damask curtains that shrouded the gloomy-looking four-post bed, sleep kept aloof from him. His mind was busy with thoughts of triumph and delight. Innumerable schemes for the future--selfish ones for the most part--crowded and jostled each other in his brain. It was a feverish night altogether--a night which left him unrefreshed and haggard when the cold wintry light came creeping in between the window curtains, and a great clock in the stable yard struck eight. A countryfied-looking young man, a subordinate of the butler’s, brought the visitor his shaving water, and, on being questioned, informed him that Mr. Treverton the elder had passed a restless night, and was worse that morning. John Treverton dressed quickly, and went straight to the study next the invalid’s room. He found Laura Malcolm there, looking very wan and pale after her night’s watching. She confirmed the young man’s statement. Jasper Treverton was much worse. His mind had wandered towards daybreak, and he now seemed to recognise no one. His old friend the vicar had been with him, and had read the prayers for the sick, but the dying man had been able to take no part in them. The end was very near at hand, Laura feared. Mr. Treverton stopped with Miss Malcolm a little while, and then wandered down to the dining-room, where he found an excellent breakfast waiting for him in solitary state. He fancied that the old butler treated him with a peculiar deference, as if aware that he was to be the new master of Treverton Manor. After breakfast he went out into the gardens, which were large, and laid out in an old-fashioned style; straight walks, formal grass-plats, and flower-beds of geometrical design. John Treverton walked here for some time, smoking his cigar and looking up thoughtfully at the great red-brick house with its many windows glittering in the chill January sunshine, and its air of old-world repose. ‘It will be the beginning of a new life,’ he said to himself. ‘I feel myself ten years younger since my interview with the old man last night. Let me see--I shall be thirty on my next birthday. Young enough to begin life afresh--old enough to use wealth wisely.’ CHAPTER II. JASPER TREVERTON’S WILL.