"Don't turn me out," whispered Tom. "It's no concern of mine, of course; but you are all good creatures, and, somehow, I should like to be with you." So Tom stayed; and what thoughts passed through his heart are no concern of ours. Frank put the cup to the old man's lips; the lips closed, sipped,--then opened ... the jaw had fallen. "Gone," said Grace quietly. Frank paused, awe-struck. "Go on, sir," said she, in a low voice. "He hears it all more clearly than he ever did before." And by the dead man's side Frank finished the Communion Service. Grace rose when it was over, kissed the calm forehead, and went out without a word. "Tom," said Frank, in a whisper, "come into the next room with me." Tom hardly heard the tone in which the words were spoken, or he would perhaps have answered otherwise than he did. "My father takes the Communion," said he, half to himself. "At least, it is a beautiful old--" Howsoever the sentence would have been finished, Tom stopped short-- "Hey?--What does that mean?" "At last?" gasped Frank, gently enough. "Excuse me!" He was bowed almost double, crushing Thurnall's arm in the fierce gripe of pain. "Pish!-- Hang it!--Impossible!--There, you are all right now!" "For the time. I can understand many things now. Curious sensation it is, though. Can you conceive a sword put in on one side of the waist, just above the hip-bone, and drawn through, handle and all, till it passes out at the opposite point?" "I have felt it twice; and therefore you will be pleased to hold your tongue and go to bed. Have you had any warnings?" "Yes,--no,--that is--this morning: but I forgot. Never mind!--What matter a hundred years hence I There it is again!--God help me!" "Humph!" growled Thurnall to himself. "I'd sooner have lost a dozen of these herring-hogs, whom nobody misses, and who are well out of their life-scrape: but the parson, just as he was making a man!" There is no use in complaints. In half an hour Frank is screaming like a woman, though he has bitten his tongue half through to stop his screams. CHAPTER XVIII. THE BLACK HOUND. Pah! Let us escape anywhere for a breath of fresh air, for even the scent of a clean turf. We have been watching saints and martyrs--perhaps not long enough for the good of our souls, but surely too long for the comfort of our bodies. Let us away up the valley, where we shall find, it not indeed a fresh healthful breeze (for the drought lasts on), at least a cool refreshing down-draught from Carcarrow Moor before the sun gets up. It is just half-past four o'clock, on a glorious August morning. We shall have three hours at least before the heavens become one great Dutch-oven again. We shall have good company, too, in our walk; for here comes Campbell fresh from his morning's swim, swinging up the silent street toward Frank Headley's lodging. He stops, and tosses a pebble against the window-pane. In a minute or two Thurnall opens the street-door and slips out to him.