'The only thing for me is to hurry up and finish with life. I'm in the way. Nobody wants me, and I shall only be a burden. I didn't want them to let me go. I wanted to die there quietly.' Lucy sighed deeply. She hardly recognised her father in the bent, broken man who was sitting beside her. He had aged very much and seemed now to be an old man, but it was a premature aging, and there was a horror in it as of a process contrary to nature. He was very thin, and his hands trembled constantly. Most of his teeth had gone; his cheeks were sunken, and he mumbled his words so that it was difficult to distinguish them. There was no light in his eyes, and his short hair was quite white. Now and again he was shaken with a racking cough, and this was followed by an attack of such pain in his heart that it was anguish even to watch it. The room was warm, but he shivered with cold and cowered over the roaring fire. When the doctor whom Lucy had sent for, saw him, he could only shrug his shoulders. 'I'm afraid nothing can be done,' he said. 'His heart is all wrong, and he's thoroughly broken up.' 'Is there no chance of recovery?' 'I'm afraid all we can do is to alleviate the pain.' 'And how long can he live?' 'It's impossible to say. He may die to-morrow, he may last six months.' The doctor was an old man, and his heart was touched by the sight of Lucy's grief. He had seen more cases than one of this kind. 'He doesn't want to live. It will be a mercy when death releases him.' Lucy did not answer. When she returned to her father, she could not speak. He was apathetic and did not ask what the doctor had said. Lady Kelsey, hating the thought of Lucy and her father living amid the discomfort of furnished lodgings, had written to offer the use of her house in Charles Street; and Mrs. Crowley, in case they wanted complete solitude, had put Court Leys at their disposal. Lucy waited a few days to see whether her father grew stronger, but no change was apparent in him, and it seemed necessary at last to make some decision. She put before him the alternative plans, but he would have none of them. 'Then would you rather stay here?' she said. He looked at the fire and did not answer. Lucy thought the sense of her question had escaped him, for often it appeared to her that his mind wandered. She was on the point of repeating it when he spoke. 'I want to go back to the Purlieu.' Lucy stifled a gasp of dismay. She stared at the wretched man. Had he forgotten? He thought that the house of his fathers was his still; and all that had parted him from it was gone from his memory. How could she tell him? 'I want to die in my own home,' he faltered. Lucy was in a turmoil of anxiety. She must make some reply. What he asked was impossible, and yet it was cruel to tell him the whole truth. 'There are people living there,' she answered. 'Are there?' he said, indifferently. He looked at the fire still. The silence was dreadful.