"Mildred, my daughter," he gasped with difficulty, "the blacksmith,—send for Ralph Hardwick,—quick! In the ebony cabinet, middle drawer, you will find——Oh! oh!—God bless you, my daughter!—God bless"——
The angels, only, heard the conclusion of the sentence; for the speaker, Walter Kinloch, was dead, summoned to the invisible world without a warning and with hardly a struggle.
But Mildred thought he had fainted, and, raising the window, called loudly for Lucy Ransom, the only female domestic then in the house.
Lucy, frightened out of her wits at the sudden call, came rushing to the piazza, flat-iron in hand, and stood riveted to the spot where she first saw the features on which the awful shadow of death had settled.
"Rub his hands, Lucy!" said Mildred. "Run for some water! Get me the smelling-salts!"
Lucy attempted to obey all three orders at once, and therefore did nothing.
Mildred held the unresisting hand. "It is warm," she said. "But the pulse,—I can't find it."
"Deary, no," said Lucy, "you won't find it."
"Why, you don't mean"——
"Yes, Mildred, he's dead!" And she let fall her flat-iron, and covered her face with her apron.