“I dar' n't move out of this spot,” said Billy, addressing Upton. “You'd have the blood coming out, _per saltim_, if I took away my finger.” “You must be patient, Glencore,” said Upton, gently; “you know I'm always ready when you want me.” “And you'll not leave this,--you'll not desert me?” cried the other, eagerly. “Certainly not; I have no thought of going away.” “There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, I 'll not take the responsibility upon me,--I will not!” said Billy, angrily. “'Tis just a disgrace and a shame that ye haven't more discretion.” Glencore's lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, and in his faint voice he said,-- “We must obey the doctor, Upton; but don't leave me.” Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word. “Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe,” said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice, to Upton, “and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that it is only by a coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater, that it can be plugged. Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off, every one of yez, and leave us tranquil and paceable!” This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last cleared of all save Upton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his hand still resting on the sick man's forehead. Soothed by the stillness, and reduced by the loss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathing softly and gently as a child. “Look at him now,” whispered Billy to Upton, “and you 'll see what philosophy there is in ascribin' to the heart the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable just because the great bellows is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal nerves, and the soliar plexus; but give a man a wake, washy circulation, and what is he? He's just like a chap with the finest intentions in the world, but not a sixpence in his pocket to carry them out! A fine well-regulated, steady-batin' heart is like a credit on the bank,--you draw on it, and your draft is n't dishonored!” “What was it brought on this attack?” asked Upton, in a whisper. “A shindy he had with the boy. I was n't here; there was nobody by. But when I met Master Charles on the stairs, he flew past me like lightning, and I just saw by a glimpse that something was wrong. He rushed out with his head bare, and his coat all open, and it sleetin' terribly! Down he went towards the lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin' after him.” “Has he returned?” asked Upton. “Not as I know, sir. We were too much taken up with the lord to ask for him.” “I 'll just step down and see,” said Sir Horace, who arose, and left the room on tiptoe.