whistling cheerily.

“Awfully hot that brother of yours make? a fellow,” said Blandford, watching him disappear.

“Yes,” said Reginald, yawning, “he is rather flighty, but he’ll turn out all right, I hope.”

“Turn out!” said Harker; “why he’s all right already, from the crown of his head to the sole of his boot.”

“Except,” said Blandford, “for a slight crack in the crown of his head. It’s just as well, perhaps, he’s not the eldest son, Reg.”

“Well,” said Reginald laughing, “I can hardly fancy Horace the head of the family.”

“Must be a rum sensation,” said Harker, “to be an heir and not have to bother your head about how you’ll get your bread and butter some day. How many hundred millions of pounds is it you’ll come in for, Reg? I forget.”

“What a humbug you are!” said Reginald; “my father’s no better off than a lot of other people.”

“That’s a mild way of putting it, anyhow,” said Blandford.

And here the conversation ended.

The boys lay basking in the sun waiting for Horace’s return. He was unusually long in coming.

“Seems to me,” said Blandford, “he’s trying how long he can be instead of how quick—for a variety.”

“Just like him,” said Reginald.

Five minutes passed away, and ten, and fifteen, and then, just as the boys were thinking of stirring themselves to inquire what had become of him, they heard his steps returning rapidly down the gravel walk.

“Well,” cried Reginald, without sitting up, “have you got them at last?”

Horace’s voice startled them all as he cried,—

“Reg! Reg! come quick, quick!”

There was no mistaking either the tones or the white face of the boy who uttered them.

Reginald was on his feet in an instant, rushing in the direction of the house, towards which his brother had already started.

“What is it, Horace?” he said as he overtook him.

“Something about father—a telegram,” gasped the other.

Not another word was spoken as they ran on and reached the hall door.

The hall door stood open. Just outside on the hot stone steps lay the towels where Horace had dropped them five minutes ago. Carlo, the dog, lay across the mat, and lazily lifted his head as his master approached. Within stood Mrs Cruden, pale and trembling, with a telegram in her hand, and in the back-ground hovered three or four servants, with mingled curiosity and anxiety on their faces.

Despite the heat, Reginald shivered as he stood a moment at the door, and then sprang towards the telegram, which his mother gave into his hand. It was from Mr Cruden’s coachman, dated from Saint Nathaniel’s Hospital.

“Master was took ill driving from City—brought here, where he is very bad indeed. Doctor says no hope.”

One needs to have received such a message oneself to understand the emotions with which the two brothers read and re-read the pitiless words. Nothing but their own hard breathing broke the stillness of those few minutes, and who knows in that brief space what a lifetime seemed crowded?

Horace was the first to recover his self-possession.

“Mother,” said he, and his voice sounded strange and startling in the silence, “there’s a train to the City in five minutes. I’ll go by that.”

And he was off. It was three-quarters of a mile to the station, and there was no time to parley. Even on an errand like this, many would have abandoned the endeavour as an impossibility, especially in such a heat. But Horace was a good runner, and the feat was nothing uncommon for him.

As he flung himself into the train he gave one quick glance round, to see if Reginald had possibly followed him; but no, he was alone; and as the whistle shrieked and the train steamed out of the station, Horace for the first time had a moment to reflect.

Not half an hour ago he had been lying with his brother and companions on the tennis lawn, utterly unconscious of any impending calamity. What ages ago that seemed! For a few minutes all appeared so confused and unreal that his mind was a blank, and he seemed even to forget on what errand he was bound.

But Horace was a practical youth, and before that half-hour’s journey to the City was accomplished he was at least collected in mind, and prepared to face the trial that awaited him.

There was something about the telegram that convinced him it meant more than it said. Still, a boy’s hopefulness will grasp at a straw, and he battled with his despair. His father was not dead—he would recover—at the hospital he would have the best medical assistance possible. The coachman who sent the telegram would be sure to make things out at the worst. Yes, when he got to Saint Nathaniel’s he would find it was a false alarm, that there was nothing much the matter at all, and when his mother and Reginald arrived by the next train, he would be able to meet them with reassuring news. It was not more than a ten-minutes’ cab-drive from the terminus—the train was just in now; in twelve minutes this awful suspense would be at an end.

Such was the hurried rush of thoughts through the poor boy’s brain during that dismal journey. He had sprung from the carriage to a hansom cab almost before the train had pulled up, and in another moment was clattering over the stones towards the hospital.

The hopes of a few minutes before oozed away as every street corner brought him nearer his destination, and when at last the stately front of Saint Nathaniel’s loomed before him, he wished his journey could never end. He gazed with faltering heart up at the ward windows, as if he could read his fate there. The place seemed deserted. A few street boys were playing on the pavement, and at the door of the in-patients’ ward a little cluster of visitors were collected round a flower stall buying sweet mementoes of the country to brighten the bedsides of their friends within. No one heeded the pale scared boy as he alighted and went up the steps.

A porter opened the door.

“My father, Mr Cruden, is here; how is he?”

“Is it the gentleman that was brought in in a fit?”

“Yes, in his carriage—is he better?”

“Will you step in and see the doctor?”

The doctor was not in his room when the boy was ushered in, and it seemed an age before he entered.

“You are Mr Cruden’s son?” said he gravely.

“Yes—is he better?”

“He was brought here about half-past three, insensible, with apoplexy.”

“Is he better now?” asked Horace again, knowing perfectly well what the dreaded answer would be.

“He is not, my boy,” said the doctor gravely. “We telegraphed to your mother at once, as you know—but before that telegram could have reached her your poor father—”

It was enough. Poor Horace closed his ears convulsively against the fatal word, and dropped back on his chair with a gasp.

The doctor put his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder.

“Are you here alone?” said he, presently.

“My mother and brother will be here directly.”

“Your father lies in a private ward. Will you wait till they come, or will you go up now?”

A struggle passed through the boy’s mind. An instinctive horror of a sight hitherto unknown struggled hard with the impulse to rush at once to his father’s bedside. At length he said, falteringly,—

“I will go now, please.”

When Mrs Cruden and Reginald arrived half an hour later, they found Horace where the doctor had left him, on his knees at his father’s bedside.