Hester and the housemaid ran hastily from the kitchen at the sound of the fall. When they saw the old man lying in a heap at the foot of the stair, they were terribly frightened. Blood was on his face. He was quite unconscious.
"He is dead. Mr. Kirton is dead!" cried the housemaid, wringing her hands.
"No,—his heart beats," said Hester. "Run for Doctor Poster, Hannah, and ask Richard Wallis to come at once and help me lift the poor old gentleman."
Hannah flew to do this errand. A moment after, Mr. Kirton opened his eyes.
"Where is Ellen?" he said. Then he shut them again. Hester glanced at the torn letter, which through all his fall the old man had held tightly clasped in his hand, and gave a loud cry.
"Miss Ellen, come back!" she exclaimed. "My own Miss Ellen. God has heard my prayers."
When Mr. Kirton's senses returned, late in the night, he found himself in his own bed. His head felt strangely; one arm was tied up in a queer stiff bandage, so that he could not move it. A cloth wet with water lay on his forehead. When he stirred and groaned, a hand lifted the cloth, dipped it in ice-water, and put it back again fresh and cool. He looked up. Some one was bending over him, some one with a face which he knew and did not know. It puzzled him strangely. At last, a look of recognition came into his eyes. "Ellen?" he said, in a tone of question.
"Yes, dear father, it is I."
"Why did you come dressed as a little child to frighten me? You are a woman," he said wonderingly; "your hair is gray!"
"I did not come as a little child, father. I am an old woman now. I have come to be your nurse."