“What’s that?” cried Uncle Luke sharply.
George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread. Some fresh trouble had befallen his house—some new horror assailed him; and his hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, “Louise! my child! my child!”
Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.
“Margaret—a fit,” he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly as it fell to pieces.
He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.
“There! there!” whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace, where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearth-rug.
Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.
“Duncan Leslie!” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the lamp and knelt on the other side. “Where’s Louie? The poor boy’s in a fit.”
“No, no,” whispered his brother hoarsely. “Look! look!”
Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.