"You have asked me a question I cannot yet answer," returned the surgeon. "My examination has been hasty and superficial: I was alone, and knew you were anxiously waiting. With the help of Mr. Benage, we may be able to arrive at some decisive opinion. I fear the injuries are serious." Yes, they were serious; and nothing could be done, as it seemed, to remedy them or alleviate the pain. Mr. Ryle lay helpless on the bed, giving vent to his regret and anguish in somewhat homely phraseology. It was the phraseology of this simple farmhouse; that to which he had been accustomed; and he was not likely to change it now. Gentlemen by birth and pedigree, he and his father had been content to live as plain farmers only, in language as well as work. He lay groaning, lamenting his imprudence, now that it was too late, in venturing within the reach of that dangerous animal. The rest waited anxiously and restlessly the appearance of the surgeon. For Mr. Benage of Barmester had a world-wide reputation, and such men seem to bring consolation with them. If any one could apply healing remedies and save his life, it was Mr. Benage. George Ryle had taken up his station at the garden gate. His hands clasped, his head lying lightly upon them, he was listening for the sound of the gig which had been despatched to Barmester. Nora at length came out to him. "You'll catch cold, George, out here in the keen night air." "The air won't hurt me to-night. Listen, Nora! I thought I heard something. They might be back again by this." He was right. The gig was bowling swiftly along, containing the well-known surgeon and messenger despatched for him. The surgeon, a little man, quick and active, was out of the gig before it had well stopped, passed George and Nora with a nod, and entered the house. A short time, and the worst was known. There would be but a few more hours of life for Mr. Ryle. Mr. King would remain, doing what he could to comfort, to soothe pain. Mr. Benage must return to Barmester, for he was wanted there. Refreshment was offered him, but he declined it. Nora waylaid him in the garden as he was going down. "Will the master see to-morrow's sun, sir?" "It's rising now; he may do so. He will not see its setting." Can you picture to yourselves what that night was for the house and its inmates? In the parlour, gathered round the table on which lay the dying man supported by pillows and covered with blankets, were Mrs. Ryle, George and Trevlyn, the surgeon, and sometimes Nora. In the outer room was collected a larger group: John Pinder, the men who had borne him home, and Molly; with a few others whom the news of the accident had brought together. Mrs. Ryle stood near her husband. George and Trevlyn seemed scarcely to know what to do with themselves; and Mr. King sat in a chair in the recess of the bay window. Mr. Ryle looked grievously wan, and the surgeon administered medicine from time to time.