"Dead! How dare you say that? He can’t be dead--it is impossible. He was quite well this morning--better than he has been for years. I told Dr. Blair so when he wished to come and see him this very morning. Oh, if only I had let him come!" Her hand on the shabby old bell-pull sent a hundred echoes through the house and brought Diarmid, shaking and apprehensive, to the door. Isla turned to him sharply. "Come, Diarmid. The General has had a fit--or something. Help to lift him up, and carry him to his room. Will you, Mr. Rosmead? Oh, thank you very much. Then if you will ride for the doctor it will be the greatest service you can render." As they would have addressed themselves to their task she stooped and tried to release the sheet of paper from the fingers that held it like a vice. But the effort was useless. As she knelt there she was able to read the address on the one side, and, on the other, which she turned with a shaking finger, the signature of Colonel Martindale. Then she knew what had happened. She left the room and flew up the stairs to see that the bed was ready, and, as she heard Margaret Maclaren clucking to her handful of poultry at the kitchen door, she wondered how all the work and business of their little world could go on as before, while her life was over. The bed was straight and the fair linen sheet turned back when Rosmead and the serving-man appeared with their burden. Even then Isla noted the extreme gentleness and power displayed by Rosmead, and from that moment he seemed, as it were, to take over her case and to legislate for her. They laid the poor old General on his bed, and Rosmead very gently drew the lids over the staring eyes that seemed to have a great horror in them. "Oh, go for the doctor--go quickly, for God’s sake!" cried Isla--"or it will be too late." "It is too late now," he said. And, stepping to the toilet-table, he lifted the General’s small shaving-glass that had been carried through many a campaign and laid it against his lips. There was not the faintest sign of a misty breath on it. "It is the infallible sign, my dear. God help and comfort you! I will send your woman to you and then go after the doctor. It will be well that he should be here even if he can do nothing." Isla, now almost convinced that her father was indeed dead, did not cry. But Rosmead never forgot the despair of her face. She bent over the prostrate figure and once more essayed to remove the letter from the gripping fingers. Rosmead stepped forward to help her and, after a small effort, he succeeded in releasing it. She smoothed it out, folded it, and put it inside the bosom of her gown. Her face seemed to harden then till it became set like marble. "I will never forgive Malcolm Mackinnon this!" she said under her breath, "never while I live."