In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home. Bob Jakin was with him, come to congratulate “the old master,” not without some excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about Mr Tom’s good luck; and Tom had thought his father would like nothing better, as a finish to the day, than a talk with Bob. But now Tom could only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his father’s long-smothered hate. After the painful news had been told, he sat in silence; he had not spirit or inclination to tell his mother and sister anything about the dinner; they hardly cared to ask it. Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was so curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it. Tom was dejected by the thought that his exemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others; Maggie was living through, over and over again, the agony of the moment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her father’s arm, with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes to come. Not one of the three felt any particular alarm about Mr Tulliver’s health; the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous attack, and it seemed only a necessary consequence that his violent passion and effort of strength, after many hours of unusual excitement, should have made him feel ill. Rest would probably cure him. Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept soundly; it seemed to him as if he had only just come to bed, when he waked to see his mother standing by him in the gray light of early morning. “My boy, you must get up this minute; I’ve sent for the doctor, and your father wants you and Maggie to come to him.” “Is he worse, mother?” “He’s been very ill all night with his head, but he doesn’t say it’s worse; he only said suddenly, ‘Bessy, fetch the boy and girl. Tell ’em to make haste.’” Maggie and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chill gray light, and reached their father’s room almost at the same moment. He was watching for them with an expression of pain on his brow, but with sharpened, anxious consciousness in his eyes. Mrs Tulliver stood at the foot of the bed, frightened and trembling, looking worn and aged from disturbed rest. Maggie was at the bedside first, but her father’s glance was toward Tom, who came and stood next to her. “Tom, my lad, it’s come upon me as I sha’n’t get up again. This world’s been too many for me, my lad, but you’ve done what you could to make things a bit even. Shake hands wi’ me again, my lad, before I go away from you.” The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other an instant. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly,— “Have you any wish, father—that I can fulfil, when——” “Ay, my lad—you’ll try and get the old mill back.” “Yes, father.”