go to those wretched Morrisons. Why did he go out to the farms this morning? Any other morning would have done; and Claud away, too. Was ever woman so plagued?—Yes, what is it? Oh, it’s you, Eliza. How is she?”

“Quite insensible, ma’am. Is the Doctor never coming?”

“Don’t ask me, Eliza. I sent the man over in the dog-cart, with instructions to bring him back.”

“Then pray, pray come and stay with me in the bedroom, ma’am.”

“But I can’t do anything, Eliza, and it isn’t as if she were my own child. I couldn’t bear to see her die.”

“Mrs Wilton!” cried the woman, wildly. “Oh, my poor darling young mistress, whom I nursed from a babe—die!”

“Here’s master—here’s Mr Wilton,” cried the rosy-faced lady from the window, and making a dash at a glass to see that her cap was right, she hurried out of the room and down the broad oaken stairs to meet her lord at the door.

“Hallo, Maria, what’s the matter?” he cried, meeting her in the hall, his high boots splashed with mud, and a hunting whip in his hand.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve come! Kate—fainting fits—one after the other—dying.”

“The devil! What have you done?”

“Cold water—vinegar—burnt—”

“No, no. Haven’t you sent for the Doctor?”

“Yes, I sent Henry with the dog-cart to fetch Mr Leigh.”

“Mr Leigh! Were you mad? What do you know about Mr Leigh? Bah, you always were a fool!”

“Yes, my dear, but what was I to do? It would have taken three hours to get—Oh, here he is.”

For there was the grating of carriage wheels on the drive, the dog-cart drew up, and Pierce Leigh sprang down and entered the hall.

Mrs Wilton glanced timidly at her husband, who gave her a sulky nod, and then turned to the young Doctor.

“My young niece—taken bad,” he said, gruffly, “You’d better go up and see her. Here, 

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