Presently the door was pushed open, and Langly entered with parcels in his arms. He placed a loaf on the table, with the rest of his burdens, and put on the empty hearth the newspaper that held a pennyworth of coals. Braunt glared at him, speechless for a moment; then cried out, indignantly: “I’ll ha’ none o’ thy charity, my lad, d----d if I will!” Before Langly could reply, Jessie rose tremblingly to her feet. “Don’t, father, don’t!” she wailed; then, swaying as she attempted to walk towards him, she fell suddenly in a heap on the floor. Langly sprang forward, but Braunt brushed him roughly aside, and, stooping over his daughter, lifted her slight form in his arms, speaking soothingly and caressingly to her. He carried her to the bed, and placed her lovingly upon it. “Run!” he cried to Langly. “Run for a doctor. There’s one down Light Street. There’s something main wrong here, I’m feared.” The young man needed no second telling. The doctor objected to go to Rose Garden Court; he had his own patients to attend to, he said. He knew there was little to be got out of the court. “I am organist at St. Martyrs,” replied the messenger, eagerly. “I will see you paid.” “Oh, it’s not that,” said the doctor. “Who generally attends people in the court? There must be some one.” “I don’t know,” answered Langly, “and I have no time to find out. The case is urgent. Come!” So the doctor, grumbling--for this kind of practice was out of his line--went with him. They found Braunt anxiously chafing the hands of the girl. “You’ve been long about it,” he cried, as they entered. Neither answered, and the doctor went quickly to the bed, with the seemingly callous indifference of a man to whom such scenes are matters of hourly routine. He placed his fingers upon her wrist, bent his ear down to her breast, then put his hand on her smooth white brow. “Has she been long ill?” he asked, sharply. “Jessie was always weakly,” answered her father, “and latterly has not been at all well, poor girl.” “Who has attended her?” “No one.” “Oh, well, you know, I can’t grant a death certificate under these circumstances. There will most likely be an inquest.” “Good God!” shrieked Braunt. “An inquest! You don’t mean to say--you can’t mean it!--Jessie is not dead?” “Yes, she is dead. I can do no good here. I’ll let the coroner know, and he can do as he pleases. I have no doubt it is all right, but we are bound to act according to the law, you know. Good-night!” Braunt threw himself upon the bed in a storm of grief; Langly stood by the side of the dead girl, stunned. He took her limp, thin hand in his, and gazed down upon her, dazed and tearless. Her father rose and paced the room, alternately pleading with fate and cursing it. Suddenly he turned on Langly like a madman. “What are you doing here?” he roared. “It was your interference that caused her last words to be troubled. Get you gone, and leave us alone!”