“Shall I send for a doctor?” inquired his sister anxiously.
“No, by no means,” he feebly replied. “It’s one of my ordinary fainting spells. I’ve had them before. I’ll—I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Lay me on the couch in the library and—let me alone. What time is it?”
“Nearly half-past seven,” answered his sister.
“Where is Grant?” was his next query.
“Here I am, father,” and his son stepped before him. “What’s wanted?”
“Come to the library at eight o’clock. I want to speak to you. I will be much better then. Don’t forget.”
Grant promised, and with the help of the butler and the gardener his father was carried to the library and placed upon a couch, where he was left by himself in spite of his sister’s expostulations.
She was a widow, as Mr. Mackerly was a widower, and they made their home together in that magnificent residence on the hill back of Whipford.
Promptly on the chime of eight, Grant marched into the library, and found his father, pale but steady, seated at the secretary, busily examining a heterogenous mass of papers.
“Are you better, father?” he asked, solicitously.