Mrs. Stenhouse turned round with a little cry of recognition. There was a gleam of gratitude in her eyes: she could almost have taken into her arms the stranger who did not believe that Edmund was dying, and forgave Horace his former offences on the moment. "Oh, Mr. Scarsdale!--then you _don't_ see a great difference in him?" cried the poor woman, with a flutter at her heart. She could take courage even from that feeble flicker of hope. "Oh, here's Scarsdale," said Edmund, with a gasp of hard-drawn breath. "I want you to write out my will directly--directly, do you hear? because I'm going to die; you're to put it all down about me, Edmund Stenhouse, like papa's--I'd do it myself, only I can't write as well as a grown-up man; and I want to leave everything--except plenty of money for my mother and a little for the girls--to my brother Roger. Make haste, do you hear? because I'll die first if you don't be quick, and then what's the good of your coming here?" "Humour him," said the doctor under his breath. "Oh, doctor, is he so very, very bad?" cried poor foolish Mrs. Stenhouse, losing the morsel of heart she had picked up from Horace's words. "He is very much excited--humour him," said the doctor authoritatively; "just now do exactly what he says. Thank heaven, there can't be much harm done in this way even by a spoiled child. The law don't recognize testators of ten years old." "Doctor, go home to bed, and don't come if mamma should send for you again," said little Edmund; "I can die all the same without you looking at me; but first I'll make my will; I shall--and then I'll die; doctor, go home to bed." "Thank you, I will," said the doctor, yawning; "but don't you be so very sure about dying, my young hero. I'll see him to-morrow, Mrs. Stenhouse. Mind what I say, _humour_ him--he's very much excited, but he's no worse. Get him to sleep as soon as you can. Good night."