"What is it, dear? Can you tell me?" asked Mrs. Grey. Wythie and Miss Charlotte were bathing his temples, while Rob, on her knees at the other side of his chair, had loosened his collar. For answer Mr. Grey pressed his hand closer to his breast, moving it slightly, but his lips barely moved. "Bartlemy, run, run for the doctor!" cried Mrs. Grey. "Stay, Basil and Bruce--I may need you." "Is it death, Mardy?" whispered Rob, feeling the cold of her father's body through his clothing. "I don't know, Rob," Mrs. Grey's white lips answered, with an effort; in her heart she thought it was. "If there were only something to do!" moaned Oswyth, feeling her helplessness unbearable. It seemed to them all that an eternity had passed since they had entered that room--in reality it was scarcely two minutes. Suddenly Mr. Grey's limbs relaxed, he moved, closed his eyes, and as his wife held to his lips the water Prue handed her, said: "The pain has gone; I can breathe." "Here's the doctor," cried Prue, and a long sigh of relief went around the tense room. "He has driven over without a hat, and brought Bart with him." Dr. Fairbairn entered, bringing with him the feeling that now all must be right, which always attended that great man. A great man he was, since he easily footed up his seventy-four inches of height, huge in proportion, and with a heart and brain big out of proportion even to his immense bulk. He was one of those men without worldly ambition, yet afire with zeal, who are sometimes found ennobling the profession in small communities. Past sixty, Dr. Fairbairn had seen Sylvester Grey born, and still regarded the girls as his babies. Now he entered the troubled group, kindly, sympathetic, business-like, strong to comfort and to save. "What are you up to, now, Sylvester man?" he said, walking straight to his patient with a brief nod for the others. "I don't know, doctor; it's all over now, anyway; I'm sorry they bothered you," said Mr. Grey. "Don't be foolish, boy," said Dr. Fairbairn. "How were you taken?" "Fearful pain just over the heart, in the chest, and all down the left arm. Then I felt suffocating, and the agony got unbearable; I really thought I was dying." And Mr. Grey gave a little apologetic laugh. "Yes. Been working hard, thinking hard?" asked the doctor. "The machine is almost done, doc. I have to work hard, and it takes all my thought. You can't realize--it means comfort, luxury maybe, for Mary and the children," said Mr. Grey, speaking rapidly and pulling himself erect. "I didn't ask you all that. I see: concentration, nervous excitement, close application," muttered Dr. Fairbairn. "Go over there and lie down and let me hear your heart through this thing." The doctor led Mr. Grey to his lounge, and placed his stethoscope to his chest.