Mrs. Waugh and Mary L’Oiseau hastened to stoop and raise the sufferer.  The commodore drew near, half stupefied, as he always was in a crisis.

“What—­what—­what’s all this?  Who did it?  How did it happen?” he asked, with a look of dull amazement.

“Give me a sofa cushion, Maria, to place under his head.  Mary L’Oiseau, hurry as fast as you can, and send a boy for Dr. Brightwell; tell him to take the swiftest horse in the stable, and ride for life and death, and bring the physician instantly, for Dr. Grimshaw is dying!  Hurry!”

“Dying?  Eh! what did you say, Henrietta?” inquired the commodore, in a sort of stupid, blind anxiety; for he was unable to comprehend what had happened.

“Speak to me, Henrietta!  What is the matter?  What ails Grim?”

“He has ruptured an artery,” said Mrs. Waugh, gravely, as she laid the sufferer gently back upon the carpet and placed the sofa pillow under his head.

“Ruptured an artery?  How did it happen?  Grim!  Nace! speak to me!  How do you feel?  Oh, Heaven! he doesn’t speak—­he doesn’t hear me!  Oh, Henrietta! he is very ill—­he is very ill!  He must be put to bed at once, and the doctor sent for!  Come here, Maria!  Help me to lift your young master,” said the old man, waking up to anxiety.

“Stay!  The doctor has been sent for; but he must not be moved; it would be fatal to him.  Indeed, I fear that he is beyond human help,” said Henrietta, as she wiped the gushing stream from the lips of the dying man.

“Beyond human help!  Eh! what?  Nace!  No! no! no! no!  It can’t be!” said the old man, kneeling down, and bending over him in helpless trouble.

“Attend Dr. Grimshaw, while I hurry out and see what can be done, Mary,” said Mrs. Waugh, resigning her charge, and then hastening from the room.  She soon returned, bringing with her such remedies as her limited knowledge suggested.  And she and Mary L’Oiseau applied them; but in vain!  Every effort for his relief seemed but to hasten his death.  The hemorrhage was subsiding; so also was his breath.  “It is too late; he is dying!” said Henrietta, solemnly.

“Dying!  No, no, Nace!  Nace! speak to me!  Nace! you’re not dying!  I’ve lost more blood than that in my time!  Nace!  Nace! speak to your old—­speak, Nace!” cried the commodore, stooping down and raising the sufferer in his arms, and gazing, half wildly, half stupidly, at the congealing face.

He continued thus for some moments, until Mrs. Waugh, putting her hand upon his shoulder, said gravely and kindly: 

“Lay him down, Commodore Waugh; he is gone.”

“Gone! gone!” echoed the old man, in his imbecile distraction, and dropped his gray head upon the corpse, and groaned aloud.

Mrs. Waugh came and laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder.  He looked up in such hopeless, helpless trouble, and cried out: 

“Oh, Henrietta! he was my son—­my only, only son!  My poor, unowned boy!  Oh, Henrietta! is he dead?  Are you sure?  Is he quite gone?”