But an hour passed, and the doctor did not come.

Thurston’s eyes wandered anxiously from the distorted face of the dying man before him, to the window that commanded the approach to the house.  But no sign of the doctor was to be seen.

The sun was on the very edge of the horizon.  The sufferer before him was evidently approaching his end.  Marian he knew must be on her way to the beach.  And a dreadful storm was rising.

His anxiety reached fever heat.

He could not leave the bedside of his dying relative, yet Marian must not be permitted to wait upon the beach, exposed to the fierceness of the storm, or worse the rudeness of his own confederates.

He took a sudden resolution, and wondered that he had not done so before.  He resolved to summon Marian as his wife to his home.

Full of this thought, he hastened down stairs and ordered Melchizedek to put the horse to the gig and get ready to go an errand.  And while the boy was obeying his directions, Thurston penned the following lines to Marian: 

“My dear Marian—­my dear, generous, long-suffering wife—­come to my aid.  My grandfather has been suddenly stricken down with apoplexy, and is dying.  The physician has not yet arrived, and I cannot leave his bedside.  Return with my messenger, to assist me in taking care of the dying man.  You, who are the angel of the sick and suffering, will not refuse me your aid.  Come, never to leave me more!  Our marriage shall be acknowledged to-morrow, to-night, any time, that you in your nicer judgment, shall approve.  Come! let nothing hinder you.  I will send a message to Edith to set her anxiety at rest, or I will send for her to be with you here.  Come to me, beloved Marian.  Dictate your own conditions if you will—­only come.”

He had scarcely sealed this note, when the boy, hat in hand, appeared at the door.

“Take this note, sir, jump in the gig and drive as fast as possible to the beach below Pine Bluffs.  You will see Miss Mayfield waiting there, give her this note, and then—­await her orders.  Be quicker than you ever were before,” said Thurston, hurrying his messenger off.

Then, much relieved of anxiety upon Marian’s account, he returned to the sick-room and renewed his endeavors to relieve the patient.

Ah! he was far past relief now; he was stricken with death.  And with Thurston all thoughts, all feelings, all interests, even those connected with Marian, were soon lost in that awful presence.  It was the first time he had ever looked upon death, and now, in the rushing tide of his sinful passions and impetuous will, he was brought face to face with this last, dread, all-conquering power!  What if it were not in his own person?  What if it were in the person of an old man, very infirm, and over-ripe for the great reaper?  It was death—­the final earthly end of every living creature—­death, the demolition of the human form, the breaking up of the vital functions, the dissolution between soul and body, the one great event that “happeneth to all;” the doom certain, the hour uncertain; coming in infancy, youth, maturity, as often or oftener than in age.  These were the thoughts that filled Thurston’s mind as he stood and wiped the clammy dews from the brow of the dying man.