"That's the way with men; they never do mean; they never use the little sense they have got. I don't expect that there's a man, woman, or child in Carnesford that wouldn't have known better. Here you had her down here for well nigh a month as bad as she could be; then she gets that terrible shock and goes off fainting all day; then she has to go into court, and as if that wasn't enough for her, you comes and blurts out before her that you found as Captain Mervyn murdered his cousin. I wouldn't call myself a man if I was you, Hiram Powlett. I had a better idea of you before." "What could I have said?" urged Hiram, feebly. "Said?" Hesba repeated, scornfully. "In the first place you need not have said anything; then if you couldn't hold your tongue, you might have said that, of course, you had found a verdict of wilful murder against some one or other, which would be quite true; but even if it hadn't been you need not have minded that when it comes to saving your own daughter's life. There, sit down and have some food, and go out to your mill." Hiram Powlett had no appetite whatever, but he meekly sat down, ate a few mouthfuls of food, and then, when Hesba left the room for a moment, took his cap from the peg and went out. Mrs. Powlett ate her meal standing; she had no more appetite for it than her husband, but she knew she should not have an opportunity of coming downstairs again when once the doctor had left, so she conscientiously forced herself to eat as much as usual, and then, after clearing away the things, and warning the little servant that she must not make the slightest sound, she went into the parlour and sat down until the doctor came downstairs. "She is quiet now. I will come back again when I have had my dinner. Sit close by her, and if you see any signs of change, sprinkle a little water on her face and send for me; and you may pour a few drops of brandy down her throat. If her breathing continues regular, and as slow as it is at present, do nothing until I return."