The melancholy procession went on its way through the outskirts of the little town. The cottages gave place to villas, then came houses standing on their own grounds. Opposite the front gates of Woodlands was the doctor's house. Sylvester dismissed his followers at the gate and, taking Leroux's portmanteau from the trap, opened the door for the bearers and their burden, and directed their way upstairs. The old housekeeper, roused by the tramping, met them on the landing. “It's a man hurt,” explained Sylvester. “Frank Leroux. We'll put him in my room.” A short while afterwards, the unconscious man was settled in Sylvester's bed, a fire lighted, and Sylvester was left alone. Able to make a more minute diagnosis, he grew very grave and prepared for an all-night sitting. ***** In the morning Leroux was still unconscious. Sylvester sent for a trained nurse, and as soon as she arrived and had received her instructions, he went over to Woodlands. The family were at breakfast. Miss Lanyon, a faded elderly woman, her lean shoulders enveloped in a black shawl, paused in the act of pouring out tea, tea-pot in hand. “Oh, Sylvester, what a dreadful thing! We have just heard. How is he?” He briefly described the accident and hinted at the result, which might be fatal. Everything depended upon treatment and nursing. He had been up all night. “How tired you must be!” said Ella. A world of tenderness underlay the commonplace words. Sylvester looked at her gratefully. She was deliciously fresh and sweet in her simple morning dress, and again Sylvester felt how gracious a thing was life,--especially after his night's battle with death. They talked of Leroux. All were deeply shocked by the news, for he had been a universal favourite. In the days past Ella had been accused of a schoolgirl flirtation with him. Miss Lanyon used to save up especial household goodies for his consumption during the holidays. Matthew, always fond of youth, had loved the boy's frank nature, and in his generous way had seldom let him leave the house without a five-pound note, or a watch, or a silver-mounted walking-stick in his possession. And now the prodigal had returned in this dismaying and tragic fashion. “What I can't understand,” said Sylvester, “is why he did not announce his coming,--why he should suddenly turn up at that ungodly hour. There are plenty of day trains.” He appealed unconsciously to his father, who made no reply. But a little later, when Miss Lanyon and Ella had left the room, Matthew said, suddenly breaking a short silence,-- “I was expecting him.” “Why didn't you tell me?” asked Sylvester, involuntarily. “He was in some trouble apparently, and asked to see me alone this morning on business.” “I wonder what it could have been?” “I wonder,” said the old man, drily.