"Ebery night, Marse Ollie, sence he bin sick, I git so lonesome dat I wait till de house git still an' den I git out'n de bed and crope down-stairs an' listen at de bedroom door. Den I hear de mistis say: 'In pain, dear?' and he say, 'No, Sallie.' An' den I crope up agin an' go to bed kind o' comforted. I was down agin las' night--mos' mawnin'--a-listenin', an' de mistis say: 'Kin I do sumpin' to ease de pain, dear?' an' he don't answer, only groan, and den I hear de bed creak, an' dat SHORT BREF COME. Pat's the sign! I knows it. In de mawnin' he'll be gone. Can't fool Malachi; I knows de signs." A gentle tap at the front door on the street sounded through the stillness. Oliver had left all the intervening doors between the dining-room and the shop open in his search for Malachi. The old servant, with the lifelong habit upon him, started up to answer the summons. "No, Mally, stay here," said Oliver. "I'll go. Some neighbor, perhaps, wanting to know how father is." Oliver walked rapidly through the yard, tiptoed through the hall, and carefully turned the knob. Amos Cobb stepped in. "I saw the light, Oliver," he said, in a low tone, "and I knew you were up. I have an important telegram from New York in answer to one I sent this morning from my office here. Would it be possible for me to see your father? I know it is very late, but the matter is most urgent." "I'm afraid not, Mr. Cobb. He is very low." "Not serious?" Amos exclaimed, in alarm. "Doctor Wallace thinks it is." "You don't tell me so! I had no idea he was so ill!" "Nor did we, sir; a change for the worse set in this evening." Amos leaned back against the wall, his hat in his hand. The light from the eight-sided hall lamp fell on his thick-set shoulders and square, determined, honest face. The keen-eyed, blunt Vermonter's distress at the news was sincere, and heartfelt. "Could I attend to it, Mr. Cobb?" asked Oliver. "Perhaps so. I've got those fellows now where the hair is short, and I'm going to make 'em pay for it." "What is it about?" Amos Cobb took a double telegram from his pocket. It was closely written and contained a long message. "It's about your father's patents. This telegram is from the attorneys of the Gorton--" Oliver laid his fingers on the open telegram in Cobb's hand, and said, in a positive tone: "He will not rob this man of his rights, Mr. Cobb." "It's not that! It is the other way. The attorneys of the Gorton Company refuse to rob your father of HIS rights. Further, the bankers will not endorse the Gorton stock until your father's patent--I think it is No. 18,131"--and he examined the telegram closely--"yes, August 13, 1856, 18,131--is out of the way. They are prepared to pay a large price for it at once, and have asked me to see your father and arrange it on the best terms I can. The offer is most liberal. I don't feel like risking an hour's delay; that's why I'm here so late. What had I better do?"