"Really, my dear sir, your question is a most awkward one," said Spreckley, slowly, "and one which I am far from feeling sure that I am in a position to answer with any degree of accuracy."
"Words--words--words!" exclaimed the sick man, turning impatiently on his pillow. "Man alive! you can answer my question if you choose to do so. All I ask is, do you believe, do you think in your own secret heart, that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April? You can answer me that."
"Are you in earnest in wishing for an answer, Mr. Denison?"
"Most terribly in earnest. I tell you again that another turn like that of last night would finish me. At least, I believe it would. And I might have another attack any day or any hour, eh?"
"You might. But--but," added the Doctor, striving to soften his words, "it might not be so severe, you know."
"There are several things that I want to do before I go hence and am seen no more," spoke the Squire in a low tone. "You would not advise me to delay doing them?"
"I would not advise you, or any man, to delay such matters."
"You do not think in your heart that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April--come now, Spreckley!"
The Doctor placed his hand gently on Mr. Denison's wrist, and bent forward.
"If you must have the truth, you must."