The doctor stretched out his disengaged hand and pointed to a china cup that stood on the table. Sara rose and brought it to him, and he took a few spoonfuls of the refreshment it contained.
"Is not the fire getting low, my dear?" he asked, with a slight shiver.
She rose and stirred it, brought forward the coal-box and put on fresh coal, and then took the hearth-brush and swept the bars and the hearth, making things comfortable.
"Do you feel cold, papa?"
"I think so," he answered, with another shiver.
"I am sure you would be better in bed. Shall I call Neal?"
"Not yet. Come and sit down again." She took her place, nestling to him as before, and he fondly stroked her head with his feeble hand. It seemed to her that the hand grew feebler with every change, every fresh movement.
"I have a few things to say to you, my dear, and I had better say them now. I should not like to go to sleep with them unspoken."
Did he mean the sleep of death? Sara trembled inwardly: she hoped that she should retain sufficient strength, no matter at what cost to her feelings, not to tremble outwardly.
"It was necessary that I should make a fresh will," he began after a pause. "In the old will----"