“What nonsense!” said Sir Emanuel; “I never was better. In good spirits, indeed, I am not. Who can be, in this hangman weather, with the air charged with vapour, with the heaviest atmospheric pressure, and the watery clouds lying almost on the ground? In a gloom of Cimmeria itself—how can one be bright?” Dr. Leroy, however, talked cheerfully with Sir Emanuel about his health; felt his pulse,—said it was rather sluggish, but that there was no organic mischief that he could perceive, but recommended cheerful society, and everything that exhilarated the spirits. To Henry he remarked afterwards that he must not say a word to lower the tone of Sir Emanuel’s spirits, but that he must say to himself privately that there was a tendency in his father to that mysterious condition called a breaking-up, which required nothing so much as a cordial and pleasant tone of life around the patient. His father, certainly, had no specific disease—but at the same time he certainly was not well. Mr. Clavering said that was precisely his own idea, and he engaged Dr. Leroy to come up often, as if coming to see and chat with himself, so that he might judge of his father’s actual state. Whenever asked about his father at Woodburn Grange, Henry Clavering said he could not say that he was well; he could not say, from time to time, that he was so well as he had been. He perceived in him a gradual decline of activity and good spirits, yet he would not confess to any ailment. It made him very melancholy. In mid-winter, and at midnight, and such a midnight!—the winds roaring and tearing furiously through the trees, snow driving thickly before the tyrannous blast, darkness profound adding to the bewildering effect of the whirling pother of the snow-flakes,—there was a loud ringing at the lodge-gate of Fair Manor. Sylvanus Crook looked out of his chamber window, half stifled by the blast that rushed in upon him, and demanded who was there. “Mr. Clavering,” said the well known voice of Henry Clavering. “Call up Mrs. Heritage, I must see her. It is a case of life and death.” “Certainly, certainly,” said Sylvanus, quickly shutting the window. In a very little time he had the gates open, and told the coachman to drive in. “The family have been in bed two hours,” said Sylvanus: “but they will soon hear,” stoutly pulling a bell at the door which communicated with the upper storey of the house. “I am afraid we shall greatly alarm them,” said Henry Clavering, in a mournful tone. “No,” said Sylvanus, “no; such calls are not unfrequent here. My mistress will understand it.” Very quickly there was a casement open, and a voice asked what was wanted. “Henry Clavering desires to see our mistress,” said Sylvanus. “I will open the door,” said the voice, and in a very little time, the great front door was thrown open, and a servant appeared with a light. It was the tall prim form of Sukey Priddo, the housekeeper.