One morning, when Margie went to take his gruel up to him—a duty she always performed herself—she found him sitting in his arm-chair, wide awake, but incapable of speech or motion.
The physician, hastily summoned, confirmed her worst fears. Mr. Trevlyn had been smitten with paralysis. He was in no immediate danger, perhaps; he might live for years, but was liable to drop away at any moment. It was simply a question of time.
Toward the close of the second day after his attack, the power of speech returned to Mr. Trevlyn.
"Margie!" he said, feebly, "Margie, come here." She flew to his side.
"I want you to send for Archer Trevlyn," he said with great difficulty.
She made a gesture of surprise.
"You think I am not quite right in my mind, Margie, that I should make that request. But I was never more sane than at this moment. My mind was never clearer, my mental sight never more correct. I want to see my grandson."
Margie despatched a servant with a brief note to Archer, informing him of his grandfather's desire, and then sat down to wait his coming.
It was a wild, stormy night in March; the boisterous wind beat against the old mansion, and like a suffering human thing, shrieked down the wide, old-fashioned chimneys.
In a lull of the storm there was a tap at the chamber door. Margie opened it, and stood face to face with Archer Trevlyn.