Old Susan saw at first that the long fluttering gasp had no successor, and her touch certified Julius.  He rose and went towards his mother.  She held out her hands and said.  “Take me to my Frank.”

“We had better,” whispered Anne.

They wheeled her to the foot of the stairs.  Julius took her in his arms, Anne held her feet, and thus they carried her up the stairs, and along the passage, hearing Frank’s husky rapid babble all the way, and finding him struggling with the fierce strength of delirium against Jenkins, who looked as if he thought them equally senseless, when he saw his helpless mistress carried in.

“Frank, my boy, do lie still,” she said, and he took no notice; but when she laid her hand on his, he turned, looked at her with his dull eyes, and muttered, “Mother!”

It was the first recognition for many a day! and, at the smoothing motion of her hand over him, while she still entreated, “Lie still, my dear,” the mutterings died away; the childish instinct of obedience stilled the struggles; and there was something more like repose than had been seen all these weary months.

“Mother,” said Julius, “you can do for us what no one else can.  You will save him.”

She looked up to him, and hope took away the blank misery he had dreaded to see.  “My poor Frankie,” she said dreamily, “he has wanted me, I will not leave him now.”

All was soon still; Frank’s face had something like rest on it, as he lay with his mother’s hand on his brow, and she intent only on him.

“You can leave them to me, I think,” said Anne.  “I will send if there be need; but if not, you had better not come up till you have been to Wil’sbro’—­if you must go.”

“I must, I fear; I promised to come to Fuller if he be still here.  I will speak to Jenkins first.”

Julius was living like a soldier in a campaign, with numbers dropping beside him, and no time to mourn, scarcely to realize the loss, and he went on, almost as if he had been a stranger; while the grief of poor old Jenkins was uncontrollable, both for his lady’s sake and for the young master, who had been his pride and glory.  His sobs brought out Mrs. Grindstone into the gallery, to insist, with some asperity, that there should be no noise to awaken her mistress, who was in a sweet sleep.

“We will take care,” said Julius, sadly.  “I suppose she had better hear nothing till Mr. Charnock comes.”

“She must be left to me, sir, or I cannot be answerable for the consequences,” was the stiff reply, wherewith Mrs. Grindstone retreated into her castle.

Julius left the hushed and veiled house, in the frosty chill of the late autumn just before dawn, shivering between grief and cold, and he walked quickly down the avenue, feeling it strange that the windows in the face of his own house were glittering back the reflection of the setting moon.

Something long and black came from the opposite direction.  “Rector,” it said, in a low hoarse voice, “I’ve got leave from him to use what he said to you.  Sister Margaret and I signed it.  Will that do?”