itself in sparse tears, and head shakings,
and deep-drawn sighs, and flutterings of
her feeble hands, and ascended the stairs.
As she gained the landing, the little doctor,
who had evidently been on the watch, came
out of a bedroom, shutting the door
cautiously behind him, and, hastening to her,
took her hand and led her into the recess of
a bay window, round which was a luxurious
ottoman. When they had seated
themselves, Marian broke silence. "You have
examined him, doctor? You know the
worst?"

"I say nothing about the worst, my
dear, as I just told our old friend; that
is not for us to say. Poor boy, he is in
a very bad way, there's no disguising that.
It's a case of fracture of the skull, with
compression of the brain—a very bad case
indeed!"

"Does he know what has happened?
Has he given any explanation of the
accident?"

"None. He is insensible, and likely to
remain so for some time. Now, my dear,
you're the handiest person in the house,
and the one with your wits most about you.
This poor lad will have to be trepanned—
ah! you don't understand what that is;
how should you? I mean, will have to be
operated upon before he gets any relief.
Under the circumstances, I don't choose to
take the responsibility of that operation on
myself, and, with Mr. Creswell's consent,
I've telegraphed to London for one of our
first surgeons to come down and operate.
He will bring a professional nurse with
him, but they cannot arrive until the mail
at two in the morning, and as I must go
down to the surgery for two or three little
matters, and see some of my patients tucked
up for the night, I intend leaving you in
charge of that room. You have nothing to
do but to keep everybody else—except, of
course, Mr. Creswell—out of the room.
You must not be frightened at Tom's heavy
breathing, or any little restlessness he may
show. That's all part of the case. Now,
my child, be brave, and so good-night for
the present."

"Good-night, doctor. Oh, one minute.
You said you had telegraphed for a London
surgeon. What is his name?"

"What on earth makes you ask that,
you inquisitive puss?" said the old gentleman,
with a smile. "Have you any choice
among London surgeons? His name is
Godby—Godby of St. Vitus!"

Godby of St. Vitus. That was the
name. She remembered it at once. The
man for whom Doctor Osborne had
telegraphed to come and see her father, or
rather would have sent for, but for the
amount of his fee. Good God, what a
contrast between that sick room and this!
The boy had been carried into his father's
bedroom, as nearer and larger than his
own; and as Marian looked around on
every side, her glance fell on signs of
comfort and luxury. The room was very
large, lit by a broad bay window, with a
splendid view of the surrounding country;
the walls were hung with exquisite proof
prints in oaken frames, a table in the centre
was covered with books and periodicals,
while on a smaller table close by the bed
was a plate piled with splendid grapes.
The bed itself, with fresh, bright chintz
curtains hanging over it, and a rich eider
down quilt thrown on it, stood in a recess,
and on it lay the suffering lad, giving no
sign of life save his deep, heavy, stertorous
breathing, and occasional restless motion of
the limbs. How vividly the other room
rose to her memory! She saw the ugly
panelled walls, with the cracking, blistering
paint, and knew the very spots from which
it had been worn off. She saw the
old-fashioned, lumbering bedstead, and the
moreen curtains tied round each sculptured
post. She remembered the roseate flash
which the sunlight shed over the face of
her dying father, the hopeless expression
which remained there when the light had
faded away. It was money, only money,
that made the very wide difference between
the two cases, and money could do
anything. Money was fetching this clever
surgeon from London, who would probably
save the life of this wretched boy. What
was the value of a life like this as compared
to her father's? But for the want of money
that sacred life had been suffered to pass
away. Thoughts like these crowded on
her brain and worked her up to a pitch of
feverish excitement during the early part
of the night. She had plenty of time for
reflection, for she had become accustomed
to the regular heavy breathing of the
patient, and no one entered the room save
Mr. Creswell, who would sit for an hour
together by his boy's bedside, and then,
watch in hand, get up and murmur
piteously: "Will the night never go. Will
the man never come!"

"The man," Mr. Godby, principal surgical
lecturer and demonstrator at St. Vitus's
Hospital, was coming as fast as the mail
train could bring him. Unlike most of his