It was then that Mr Bell took sick, and the rest of the story transpired which I have already recounted.
Nearly all of what I have so far related was told by May, only here and there her father added a word of correction or explanation.
For the last half-hour he had not spoken. May was sitting turned from him, but I could see his face, and I noticed that he had closed his eyes: I merely supposed that he was sleeping.
When May ended her story we were silent for a minute. She turned to address him; the moment her eyes fell on him, she exclaimed in alarm, "He has fainted again! He is dead!"
I was bewildered. "No, no! not that!" was all I could say; "he is only sleeping."
Kneeling beside him, she endeavoured to arouse him, but he did not stir.
Again she cried out that he was dead, and looked at me appealingly.
But I had hold of his wrist, I could feel his pulse; it was weak, but I knew he was alive, and told her it was a recurrence of his old complaint—bad enough, but not so bad as she supposed.
I brought whisky, forced some into his mouth, and before long we had the satisfaction of seeing him revive.
May was now blaming herself for having allowed him to be agitated by our conversation, at which I also felt guilty, for had not my visit been the cause of it?