Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambling reply. Long before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering between his teeth as he went-- “We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the siller to fetch him, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs?--he's a cannie chiel, is auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever,” and with this sensible reflection he proceeded on his way. Meanwhile the O'Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to slip on an old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive slippers, with which attired, he entered the sick boy's room. “Well, Herbert, lad,” said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering the grey light to fall on the youth's features, “what is the matter? your uncle has been routing me up with a story about you.” He ceased suddenly, as his eyes beheld the change a few hours had wrought in the boy's appearance: “His eyes, deep-buried in their orbits, shone with an unnatural lustre--his cheeks were pale and sunken, save where a bright patch of florid red marked the centre of each; his lips were dry and shrivelled, and had a slight tremulous motion, as if he were muttering to himself. “Poor fellow,” said the father, “how dreadfully ill he looks. Have you any pain, my boy?” The boy knew the voice, and recognized the kindly accent, but could not hear or understand the words; and as his eyes glistened with delight, he stole his burning hand from beneath the bed-clothes, and held it out, all trembling, towards his father. “How sudden this has been: you were quite well last night, Herbert.” “Last night!” echoed the boy, with a strange emphasis on the only words he had caught up. “No, by the way, it was the night before I mean. I did not see you last night; but, cheer up, my dear boy; we've sent for Roach--he'll put you to rights at once. I hope Mark may reach home before the doctor goes. I'd like to have his advice about that strain in the back.”