Mrs. Grail left the room without speaking. She returned in a few minutes, and, leaving the door a little open, said in her very low, tremulous voice, that Lydia was waiting in the passage. Ackroyd shook hands with the two, and went out. Lydia looked eagerly into his face. 'Is he very bad, Mr. Ackroyd?' she whispered. 'I hope he's come round by this time,' was his reply. 'My sister's attending to him, and we've got things for him from the doctor.' They passed into the street, and walked quickly side by side. 'It was very good of you to take him in,' Lydia said. 'It would have been very hard to ask Mrs. Bower for help.' 'Yes, yes; We don't want them.' Lydia and Mrs. Poole had never met. They looked with interest at each other. Ackroyd went down into the kitchen, leaving them together in the room with the old man. The night went on. Ackroyd and his brother-in-law smoked innumerable pipes by the kitchen fire. Jim often nodded, but Luke was far from sleep; the sad still half-hour spent with the Grails had troubled his imagination, and thoughts of Thyrza had been revived in him. Yes, he had loved Thyrza; all folly put aside, he knew that the memory of the sweet-voiced, golden-haired girl would for ever remain with him. And all this night he did not once think of Totty Nancarrow. Fortunately, as it was Saturday, they had no need to think of work next morning. Jim would not go to bed; he kept up the most determined struggle with sleep, subduer of mortals. His wife came down now and then, and was angry with him for his useless obstinacy, so plain it was that he could scarcely hold up his great thick head. There was nothing good to report of the patient; he had not recovered consciousness. At five o'clock, when, in spite of fire and lamp, the little kitchen looked haggard, Mrs. Poole entered hurriedly. 'Do you think the doctor 'ud come, Luke, if you went for him? He can't get breath. Lydia does want the doctor fetching.' Luke was off in an instant. Lydia stood by the bed, pale, anguished. Happily, that struggle, which seemed of death, did not last very long. The worn old face, almost venerable at length in spite of the grotesqueness of its features, fell into calm. Then, almost as in a natural waking from sleep, the eyes opened and were aware of things. 'Are you feeling better, grandad dear?' Lydia asked. He looked surprised, tried to speak; but there was no voice. Luke was long. The two women stood side by side. The old man kept endeavouring to utter words; his powerlessness was dreadful to him, his face showed. But at length he spoke. 'Lyddy!--Thyrza!' 'She shall come and see you, grandad. She shall come very soon.' Again a vain endeavour to speak. His face altered; it expressed Lydia knew not what. A supreme effort, and he again spoke. 'Mary Bower gave me all I wanted, Be friends with her, Lyddy!' No more than that. Gradually, an end of struggle, an end of pain, an end of all things.