It neither occurred to the poor girl to obey him nor to think what he meant. She stood by breathless while he looked at the motionless figure in the chair, and took into his own the grey cold hand which hung helpless by Mr. St. John's side. Cicely did not look at her father, but at the doctor, to know what it was; and round the door the group of men gazed too awestricken, with Betsy, whom curiosity and the attraction of terror had brought downstairs, and one or two labourers from the village passing to their morning's work, who had come in, drawn by the strange fascination of _what had happened_, and staring too. "Hours ago," said the doctor to himself, shaking his head; "he is quite cold; who saw him last?" "O doctor, do something!" cried Cicely, clasping her hands; "don't lose time; don't let him be like this; do something--oh, do something, doctor! Don't you know that we are going to-day?" He turned round upon her very gently, and the group at the door moved with a rustling movement of sympathy. Betsy fell a crying loudly, and some of the men put their hands to their eyes. The doctor took Cicely by the arm, and turned her away with gentle force. "My dear, you must come with me. I want to speak to you in the next room." "But papa?" she cried. "My poor child," said the compassionate doctor, "we can do nothing for him now." Cicely stood quite still for a moment, then the hot blood flushed into her face, followed by sudden paleness. She drew herself out of the kind doctor's hold, and went back and knelt down again by her father's side. Do nothing more for him--while still he sat there, just as he always did, in his own chair? "Papa, what is it?" she said, trembling, while they all stood round. Suddenly the roughest of all the men, one of the labourers, broke forth into loud sobs. "Don't you, miss--don't, for the love of God!" cried the man. She could not hear it. All this came fresh to her word for word a little later, but just then she heard nothing. She took the hand the doctor had taken, and put her warm cheek and her young lips to it. "He is cold because he has been sleeping in his chair," she cried, appealing to them. "Nothing else--what could it be else? and we are going away to-day!" The doctor grasped at her arm, almost hurting her. "Come," he said, "Cicely, this is not like you. We must carry him to bed. Come with me to another room. I want to ask you how he was last night." This argument subdued her, and she went meekly out of the room, trying to think that her father was to be carried to his bed, and that all might still be well. Trying to think so; though a chill had fallen upon her, and she knew, in spite of herself. * * * * *