Mrs. Ritson, with Paul and Greta, went into the room in which they had placed the stricken man. He lay across the bed in his clothes, just as he had fallen. They bathed his forehead and applied leeches to his temples. He breathed heavily, but gave no sign of consciousness.
Paul sat at his father's side with his face buried in his hands. He was recalling his boyish days, when his father would lift him in his arms and throw him on the bare back of the pony that he gave him on his thirteenth birthday. Could it be possible that the end was at hand!
He got up and led Greta out of the room.
"This house of mourning is no place for you," he said; "the storm is over: you must leave us; Natt can put the mare into the trap and drive you home."
"I will not go," said Greta; "this shall be my home to-night. Don't send me away from you, Paul. You are in trouble, and my place is here."
"You could do no good, and might take some harm."
Mrs. Ritson came out.
"Where is Mr. Bonnithorne?" she asked. "He was to be here at eight. Your father might recover consciousness."
"The lawyer could do nothing to help him."
"If he is to leave us, may it please God to give him one little hour of consciousness."