“Let me send for your brother,” said the Vicar. “Let me send for Randolph. He will know best what to do.” “Randolph! what has he to do with it?” she cried. “Oh go, Mr. Pen; do not vex me now.” “I will go.” Mr. Pen closed his book with regret and put it into his pocket. He did not like the idea that the old Squire should depart out of the world like any common man, uncared for. After his long connection with the family, that such a thing should happen without him! Mr. Musgrave had not perhaps been so regardful as was to be desired of all the services of the Church, and Mr. Pen was all the more anxious, now that he could have everything his own way, that all should be done in order. But how could he resist Mary’s will and wish? He put his book in his pocket with a sigh. “I will do what you wish, Miss Mary; but--it is a journey of many hours--and trains may not suit. Do you think he will--go on--so long?” “He is asking for the little boy,” said Mary, hastily. “Come and see him, and it will go to your heart. How can I tell you any more? We do not know even whether he is to live or to die.” “Ah, you must not cherish false hopes,” said the Vicar, as he followed her upstairs. The servants were peeping on the staircase and at the doors; they were half disappointed, like Mr. Pen, that the “change” was not more decided. They had hoped that all was nearly over at last. The darkened room, where the night-light was still burning though full day broke in muffled through the half-shuttered windows, was of itself very impressive to Mr. Pen, coming out of the fresh fulness of the morning light. He followed Mary, going elaborately on tiptoe round the foot of the great heavily-curtained bed. The Squire’s head had been propped up a little. He had become even a little more conscious since Mary had left him. But his voice was so babbling and inarticulate that Mr. Pen, unused to it, and deeply touched by the condition in which he saw his old friend and patron, could not make out the words--“Bring the little boy--the little boy, not Randolph--little Johnny: bring the little boy.” Thus he went murmuring on, and there had gradually come a kind of wish into the face, and a kind of consciousness of their presence. “I wanted to bring Lilias, but Lilias they tell me has gone out; I cannot tell where she can have gone,” Mary whispered. “And he never took any notice of Lilias--it is the boy he wants--listen, Mr. Pen, always the boy.” “I cannot make anything of it,” said Mr. Pen, moved to tears. “Oh listen! He says, ‘Not Randolph, the boy!’ It is the boy he wants. Look! I almost think he knows you. Oh, what is it he wants?” cried Mary.