"Then tell me, how was it? When was he stricken?"

"We don't know, ma.r.s.e. He was found jes' dis way by John dis mornin'--not jes zackly dis way, howaseber, case he was a-layin' on his lef side, w'ich was berry bad; so me an' John turn him ober jes so like he is a-layin' now. Den we sent right off for you, ma.r.s.e, to ketch yer at home 'fore yer went to de works."

"Did he seem well when he came home last night?'

"Jes 'bout as ujual, ma.r.s.e. He came in, an' John he waited on him. An he ax, ole ma.r.s.e did, 'was Mrs. Rossay gone?' W'ich John tole him she were.

Den he ordered dinner to be fotch up. An' John he had a pitcher ob hot punch ready. An' ole ma.r.s.e drank some. Den he went in to dinner all by hisself. An' young Mark he waited on de table, w'ich he tell me, w'en I ax him dis mornin', how de ole ma.r.s.e eat much as ujual, wid a good relish. Den arter dinner he went to de liberairy and sot dere a long time. Ole John say it were midnight 'fo' de ole ma.r.s.e walk up stairs an'

call him to wait on him."

"Was John the last one who saw my father before he was found unconscious this morning?"

"Hi! yes, young ma.r.s.e, to be sure he were. De las' to see de ole ma.r.s.e in healt' las' night, an' de firs' to fine him dis way dis mornin'."

"How came he to find his master in this condition?"

"It was dis way. Yer know, young ma.r.s.e, as dere is two keys to ole ma.r.s.er's do', w'ich ole ma.r.s.e keeps one in his room to lock hisse'f in, an' John keeps one to let hisse'f in wen de ole ma.r.s.e rings for him in de mornin'."

"Yes; I know."

"Well, dis mornin' de ole ma.r.s.e didn't ring at his ujual hour. An' de time pa.s.sed, an' de breakfast were ready an' spilin'. So I tole John how he better go up an' see if ole ma.r.s.e was well, how maybe he didn' feel like gettin' up an' might want to take his breakfas' in bed. But Lor! I nebber partic.i.p.ated sich a sarious 'tack as dis. Well, den, John he went an' rapped soft like. But he didn't get no answer. Den he rap little louder. But still no answer. Den John he got scared, awful scared. Las'

John he plucks up courage, an' unlocks de do', slow an' saf', an' goes in on tiptoe to de bedside, an'--an'--an'--dis yer is wot he seen. He t'ought his ole ma.r.s.e were dead sure, an' he come howlin' an' tumblin'

down to me, an' tole me so, an' I called young Mark to follow me, case ole John wa'n't no good, an' I run up yere, an'--an'--an' dis yer is wot I foun'! O'ly he were a layin' on his lef side, an' I see he were breavin' an' I turn' him ober on his right, an' did all I could for him, an' sent John arter you."

"I wish the doctor would come," said Mr. Fabian, anxiously, as he took his father's hand again and tried to feel the pulse.

The door opened very quietly, and Clarence came into the room. Fabian beckoned him to approach the bed.

"How is he?" inquired the younger man.

"As you see! He was found in this condition by his servant this morning.

He has shown no sign of consciousness since," replied the elder.

"The doctor is below. Shall he come up now?"

"Certainly."

Clarence left the room and soon returned with the physician. After a very brief examination of pulse, temperature, the pupils of the eyes of the patient, prompt measures were taken to relieve the evident pressure on the brain. The doctor bled the sufferer, who presently opened his eyes, and looked slowly around his bed. His two sons bent over him.

He tried to speak.

They bent lower still to listen.

After several futile efforts he uttered one word:

"Cora."

"Yes, father--she is here. Go, Clarence, and fetch her at once. She is at the ferryman's cottage."

The last sentence was added in a low whisper. Clarence immediately left the room to do his errand. A few minutes later the door opened softly, and Clarence re-entered the room with Cora.

Mr. Fabian went to meet her, saying softly:

"He has called for you, my dear! The only word he has spoken since he recovered consciousness was your name."

"So Uncle Clarence told me," she said, in a broken voice.

"Come to him now," said Fabian, leading her to the bedside.

She sank on her knees and took the hand of the dying man and kissed it, pleading:

"Grandfather, dear grandfather, I love you. I am grieved at having offended you. Will you forgive me--now?"

He made several painful efforts to answer her, before he uttered the few disconnected words:

"Yes--forgive--you--Cora."

She bathed his hand with her tears. All on her part also was forgotten now--all the harshness and despotism of years was forgotten now, and nothing was remembered but the gray-haired man, always gray-haired in her knowledge of him, who had protected her orphanage and given her a home and an education. She knelt there, holding his hand, and was presently touched and comforted because the lingers of that hand closed on hers with a loving pressure that they had never given her in all her life before. That was the last sign of consciousness he gave for many hours.

Mr. Fabian took the doctor aside.

"Ought I to send for my wife?" he inquired.

"Yes; I think so," replied the physician.

And the son knew that answer was his father's sentence of death. Not one of the family could be spared from this death bed to go and fetch Violet. So Mr. Fabian went down stairs to the library and wrote a hasty note:

DEAR VIOLET: You offered to come and help to nurse the father, who is sicker than we thought, but with no contagious fever. Come now, dear, and bring baby and nurse, for you may have to stay several days.

FABIAN.

He inclosed this letter in an envelope, sealed and directed it, and took it down to the stable, where he found his own groom Charles in the coachman's room.

"Put the horses to the carriage again, and return to Violet Banks to bring your mistress here. Give her this note. It will explain all," said Mr. Fabian, handing the note to the servant.

He found the same group around the death bed. Clarence and the doctor standing on the left side, Cora kneeling by the right side, still holding the hand of the dying man, whose fingers were closed upon hers and whose face was turned toward hers, but with "no speculation" in it.

Two hours pa.s.sed away without any change. The sound of wheels without could be heard through the profound stillness of the death chamber. Mr.

Fabian again left the room to receive his wife.

He met Violet in the hall, just as old John had admitted her. She was closely followed by the nurse and the child.

"How is father?" she inquired.

"He is very ill, my dear, but resting quietly just at present. Here is Martha; she will take you to your room and make you and the baby comfortable. Then, as soon as you can, come to the father's chamber; you know where to find it," said Mr. Fabian, who feared to shock his sensitive wife by telling her that he was sinking fast, and thought that it would be safer to let her come into the room and join the group around the bed, and gradually learn the sad truth by her own observation.

"Yes; I can find my way very well," answered Violet, as she handed her bag, shawl, and umbrella to Martha, and followed the housekeeper up stairs, with the nurse and baby.

Mr. Fabian returned to the chamber of the dying man, around whose bed the group remained as he had left it, and where in a very few minutes he was joined by Violet. She entered the room very softly, so that her approach was not heard until she reached the bedside. Then she took and silently pressed the hands that were silently held out by Cora, and finally she knelt down beside her.

More hours pa.s.sed; no one left the sick room, for no one knew how soon the end might come. Old John thoughtfully brought in a waiter of refreshments and set it down on a side table for any one who might require it.