"Words--words--words!" exclaimed the sick man, turning impatiently on his pillow. "Man alive! you can answer my question if you choose to do so. All I ask is, do you _believe_, do you think in your own secret heart, that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April? You can answer me that." "Are you in earnest in wishing for an answer, Mr. Denison?" "Most terribly in earnest. I tell you again that another turn like that of last night would finish me. At least, I believe it would. And I might have another attack any day or any hour, eh?" "You might. But--but," added the Doctor, striving to soften his words, "it might not be so severe, you know." "There are several things that I want to do before I go hence and am seen no more," spoke the Squire in a low tone. "You would not advise me to delay doing them?" "I would not advise you, or any man, to delay such matters." "You do not think in your heart that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April--come now, Spreckley!" The Doctor placed his hand gently on Mr. Denison's wrist, and bent forward. "If you must have the truth, you must." "Yes, yes," was the eager, impatient interposition. "The truth--the truth." "Well, then--these attacks of yours are increasing both in frequency and violence. Each one that comes diminishes your reserve of strength. One more sharp attack might, and probably would, prove fatal to you." "You must ward it off, Spreckley." "I don't know how to." The Squire lifted his hand slightly, and then let it drop on the coverlet again. Was it a gesture of resignation, or of despair? His chin drooped forward on his breast, and there was unbroken silence in the room for some moments. "Doctor," said Mr. Denison then, and his tones sounded strangely hollow, "I will give you five thousand pounds if you can keep me alive till the twenty-fifth of April. Five thousand, Spreckley!" "All the money in the world cannot prolong life by a single hour when our time has come," said the surgeon. "You know that as well as I, Mr. Denison. Whatever human skill can do for you shall be done; of that you may rest assured." "But still you think I can't last out--eh?" The Doctor took one of his patient's hands and pressed it gently between both of his. "My dear old friend, I think that nothing short of a miracle could prolong your life till then," and there was an unwonted tremor in his voice as he spoke. Nothing more was said. Dr. Spreckley turned to the door, remarking that he would come up again later in the day. "There's no necessity," said the Squire, with spirit, as if he took the fiat in dudgeon and did not believe it. "No occasion for you to come at all to-day. I am better; much better. I should not have stayed in bed this morning, only you ordered me." "Very well, Squire."