“And he says I’m never to contradict _her_!” Dunning said indignantly in the housekeeper’s room, where he went for consolation; “between them a man ain’t allowed to say a word!” The women all cried out with scorn that Sir Giles would find out different from _that_ one o’ these days. “Then he’ll just die,” said Dunning. Things had come to a very mournful pass in the old melancholy house. By degrees the backgammon, too, fell out of use. Patty sat with him still in the evening, but it was in his own room, often by his bedside, and many, many conversations took place between them, unheard by any one. Dunning would catch a word now and then, as he went and came, and gathered that Sir Giles was sometimes telling her of things he would like to have done, and that sometimes she was telling him of things she would wish to be done. “As if she had aught to do with it!” Dunning said with indignation. Dunning, observing everything, imagined, too, that Sir Giles began to grow anxious about those expectations which were so long delayed. His attendant sometimes heard mutterings of calculation and broken questioning with himself from the old gentleman. “It’s a long time to wait--a long time--a long time!” he said. “What is a long time, Sir Giles?” Dunning ventured to ask--but was told to hold his tongue for a fool. One day, towards the end of April, he suddenly roused from a long muse or doze by the fire, and called to Dunning to send a telegram for Pownceby. “Tell him to come directly. I mayn’t be here to-morrow,” Sir Giles said. “Are you thinking of changing the air, Sir Giles?” said the astonished servant. The rain was pouring in a white blast across the park, bending all the young trees one way, and pattering among the foliage. “Air!” said the old man; “it’s nothing but water; but I’m soon going to move, Dunning, as you say.” “Well, it might do you good, Sir Giles, a little later--when the weather’s better.” Sir Giles made no reply, but Dunning heard him muttering: “She always says there’s nothing certain in this world.” Mr. Pownceby came as quick as the railway could bring him. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked of Mrs. Piercey, who met him at the door. “Oh, I am afraid he’s very bad,” said Patty; “I am afraid he’s not long for this world.” “Why does he want me? Does he want to change his will?” “I don’t know--I don’t know. Oh, Mr. Pownceby, I don’t know how to say it. I am afraid he is disappointed: that--that you said to me last time----” “Was not true, I suppose?” said the father of a family, who was not without his experiences, and he looked somewhat sternly at Patty, who was trembling. “I never said it was,” she said. “It was not I. He took it into his head, and I did not know how to contradict him. Oh, don’t say to him it’s not true! rather, rather let him believe it now. Let him die happy, Mr. Pownceby! Oh, he has been so good to me! Say anything to make him die happy!” Patty cried.