"Yes. Is Smithson still here? Tell him to wait for me. I shall be glad of his arm, going uphill. You don't know what is wrong with Barclay?"
"It is an acute attack—something internal, I fancy. Mr. Evans has seen him, and says nothing can be done. He is in great pain."
"Run away, my dear."
"Father, you don't think—if I were to go to the cottage with Smithson, and tell him Jem would come? The gardener could go for Jem."
"You need not be afraid. A man can always do his duty. I will wrap up well, and take all precautions. Make me a cup of hot coffee, if you like—and give Smithson some too."
Jean retreated, with a terrible weight at her heart; ran down to speak to Smithson; ordered the coffee; then rushed upstairs to don hat and ulster. But disappointment awaited her. When Mr. Trevelyan appeared, a negative movement of his head greeted the outdoor apparel.
"No, Jean."
"I am coming, of course?"—desperately.
"No; it is unnecessary. You have had a great deal to do lately, and you are tired—" which was true, though Jean imagined he had not seen it. "You can do no possible good by coming; and I don't wish you to be there . . . It is practically almost a one-roomed cottage—every sound heard. Stay at home, and keep up good fires."
"You needn't be afraid, Miss," put in Smithson. "I'll see him home safe—I promise you."