“Heavens!  Mrs. Maguire, what has happened?” said he, looking on the two apparently inanimate bodies with alarm.

“His father,” she said, pointing to the boy, “being in a state of drink, threw a little beech chair at the apprentice here, he stepped aside, as was natural, and the blow struck my treasure there,” she said, holding her hand over the spot where he was struck, but not on it; “but, doctor, look at his father, the blood is trickling out of his mouth.”

The doctor, after examining into the state of both, told her not to despair—­

“Your husband,” said he, “who is only in a fit, has broken a blood-vessel, I think some small blood-vessel is broken; but as for the boy, I can as yet pronounce no certain opinion upon him.  It will be a satisfaction to you, however, to know that he is not dead, but only in a heavy stupor occasioned by the blow.”

It was now that her tears began to flow, and copiously and bitterly they did flow; but as there was still hope, her grief, though bitter, was not that of despair.  Ere many minutes, the doctor’s opinion respecting one of them, at least, was verified.  Art opened his eyes, looked wildly about him, and the doctor instantly signed to his wife to calm the violence of her sorrow, and she was calm.

“Margaret,” said he, “where’s Atty? bring him to me—­bring him to me!”

“Your son was hurt,” replied the doctor, “and has just gone to sleep.”

“He is dead,” said Art, “he is dead, he will never waken from that sleep—­and it was I that killed him!”

“Don’t disturb yourself,” said the doctor, “as you value your own life and his; you yourself have broken a blood-vessel, and there is nothing for you now but quiet and ease.”

“He is dead,” said his father, “he is dead, and it was I that killed him; or, if he’s not dead, I must hear it from his mother’s lips.”

“Art, darlin’, he is not dead, but he is very much hurted,” she replied; “Art, as you love him, and me, and us all, be guided by the doctor.”

“He is not dead,” said the doctor; “severely hurt he is, but not dead.  Of that you may rest assured.”

So far as regarded Art, the doctor was right; he had broken only a small blood vessel, and the moment the consequences of his fit had passed away, he was able to get up, and walk about with very little diminution of his strength.

To prevent him from seeing his son, or to conceal the boy’s state from him, was impossible.  He no sooner rose than with trembling hands, a frightful terror of what was before him, he went to the little bed on which the being dearest to him on earth lay.  He stood for a moment, and looked down upon the boy’s beautiful, but motionless face; he first stooped, and putting his mouth to the child’s ear said—­