he said shortly. Ike moved a step or two
forward, stretched out his hand, tried to
say something, and fell upon the floor
stricken with paralysis.

About a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards, a
breathless messenger arrived at Robin's door,
and rang the photographer's bell. It was too
late for business, but he went down from
Alice's room to see what was wanted, and
was told that he must go up home
immediately, for his father had had a fit, and was
not expected to survive the night. He
returned for a moment to his wife, bade her
not wake for him, as he might be detained,
kissed her and the child, and then
accompanied the servant to his father's house in all
haste.

His brother Carl, Marston the clerk, a
physician, and the housekeeper, were in the
chamber as he entered it. The old man was
making a frightful effort to speak, but could
not articulate a word. This continued for
some time; then the stupor of insensibility
seemed to shroud all his faculties. Poor
Robin held one of the powerless hands, and
wept as bitterly as if his father had been to
him what he had been to Carl, while his
brother stood by quite phlegmatic and
unmoved; Marston and the female servant
were also deeply affected. The physician
tried all the usual remedies without effect,
and delivered oracular sentiments in a
professional tone: Mr. Branston might rally and
live for months, or it might be years; or
another fit might supervene and prove fatal.
For the present, nothing more could be done,
but if the patient revived, he might have a
few drops of a certain medicine, for which a
prescription was given—a very few drops, in
water—and then the man of physic departed,
pretty well aware that Death was lying in
wait to take possession of what he left.

Ike being fallen into a sort of lethargy
which seemed likely to continue, Robin ran
home to reassure his wife, promising to come
back in a few hours. Marston lay down to
rest in an adjoining room, and the
housekeeper went to her bed. Carl being left
alone in his father's room, sat down by the
bed-side to keep his watch; it was the first
time such a vigil had fallen to him, and the
deadly stillness of the house at midnight
weighed on him like a nightmare. This man
never had the company of good thoughts, but
often a throb of fear came to him in the
silent hours. It came now. He got up and
lifted the curtain from the window. There
was starlight in the sky, clear and pure, and
in the room a dim lamp burning under a
shade. On the mantelshelf where it stood
were ranged bottles, full, half-full, and
empty, and at the end the prescription
brought from the chemist's that night. It
was plainly labelled, and Carl's eye, dropping
from the lamp, fell on it and fixed there;
wandered away; returned stealthily, as if
afraid of the thought it pointed, and then
glanced at the grey old head under the crimson
drapery of the bed. Carl shuddered, as
if chilled to the bone, walked to the door of
the room where Marston lay; put his hand
upon the handle; drew it back; halted
irresolute. A slight moaning noise called him
back to his father's side; he was struggling
to speak again. Carl bent his ear close to his
mouth, and distinguished a few disconnected
words: "Robin—wife—my will—Marston—
at once;" he seemed to be in an agony of
haste.

Carl stood upright for a moment, and
looked at his father's working countenance;
then half-filling a wine-glass with water,
poured into it some of the contents of the
medicine. Once he stayed his hand; then,
swift as thought, poured on, and presented
the draught to the old man's lips. He
swallowed it all, and lay back with his son's arm
under him. Carl drew it away, and went
behind the curtains, and looked up at the
starlit heavens with a ghastly face.

When Robin returned in an hour or two
later, his brother met him at the chamber-
door. Their father, he said, had had a second
seizure and was dead; and the two brothers
went down-stairs together.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

OLD Ike Branston's funeral was over; the
shutters were opened, the blinds drawn up.
Carl was by himself in the house—his own
house now; and the servants in the kitchen
were talking of "master's father—old master,"
whom they had buried ceremoniously that
morning. True to his profession to the last,
Ike's will was redolent of charity and twenty
pound bequests; but the great bulk of his gains
went to his darling Carl; to Robin, nothing—
not a shilling. Robin, though grievously
disappointed, neither reproached his father's
memory, nor complained of his brother's
greed. He merely remarked: "If he had
lived he would have altered his will; he was
more than half-disposed to forgive me the
last time I talked to him, if you had not come
between us, and you know it, Carl."

Carl did know it; and not finding it
convenient to make any asseverations of his
goodwill, the brothers parted with a very cool
hand-shake, soon after the other people, who
had paid Ike Branston the respect of following
him to the grave, had dispersed.

The day got over slowly. Dinner-time
came, and Carl sat down to his solitary
repast, with the white-headed butler, who
had served his father ever since his marriage,
behind his chair, and a feline-footed man in
livery to wait upon him. Not that he was a
man who loved state or show, but that he
did not like to be alone, was he thus attended.
He dragged the ceremonial of dining over a
long hour and a-half, but it was ended at
last, the round table with the decanters
placed by the fire, and the servants gone out.
He drew a long breath, as if to free his chest