Mrs. May still stood at the cottage door, and the keeper, warned by the light, called from a little distance. “Here we are, Mrs. May,” he said, as cheerfully as might be. “He’s all right—just had a little accident, that’s all. So I’m carryin’ him. Don’t be frightened; get a little water—I think he’s got a bit of a cut on the head. But it’s nothing to fluster about.” . . . And so assuring and protesting, Bob brought the old man in.

The woman saw the staring grey face and the blood. “O-o-o—my God!” she quavered, stricken sick and pale. “He’s—he’s—”

“No, no. No, no! Keep steady and help. Shift the table, an’ I’ll put him down on the rug.”

She mastered herself, and said no more. The old man, whose babble had sunk to an indistinct mutter, was no sooner laid on the floor than he made a vague effort to rise, as though to continue on his way. But he was feebler than before, and Bob Smallpiece pressed him gently back upon the new-mended coat, doubled to make a pillow.

Nan May, tense and white, curbed her agitation, ministering and suffering in silence. Years before a man had been carried home to her thus, but then all was over, and after the first numbness grief could take its vent. Once she asked Bob Smallpiece, in a whisper, how it had happened. He told how little he knew, and save for passing the words to Bessy, wakened by unwonted sounds, Mrs. May said nothing. Bessy, in her nightgown, sat on the stairs, hugging her crutch, and sobbing with what quietness she could compel of herself.

There was a little brandy in a quartern bottle, and the keeper thought it well to force the spirit between the old man’s teeth, while Mrs. May bathed the head and washed away the clotted blood. As they did so the wheels of the doctor’s dog-cart were heard in the lane, and soon the doctor came in at the door, pulling off his gloves.

Johnny stood, pale, helpless, and still almost breathless, behind the group, while the doctor knelt at his grandfather’s side. There was a contused wound at the top of the head, the doctor could see, a little back, not serious. But blood still dripped from the ears, and the doctor shook his head. “Fracture of the base,” he said, as to himself.

Reviving a little, because of the brandy and the bathing, the old man once more made a motion as if to rise, his eyes grew brighter, though fixed still, and his voice rose distinctly as ever.

“—took the bag in, yes. London’s comin’ fast, London’s comin’ an’ a-frightenin’ out the butterflies. London’s a-drivin’ the butterflies out o’ my round, out o’ my round, an’ butterflies can’t live near it. London’s out o’ my round an’ I’ve done my round an’ now I’ll give in the empty bag. Take the bag: an’ look for the pension. That’s the ’vantage o’ the Pos’-Office, John. Some gets pensions but some don’, but the butterflies’ll last my time I hope: an’ Haskins he kep’ bees, but I’m hopin’ to finish my roun’—” and so on and so on till the voice fell again and the muttering was fainter than before.

Bob Smallpiece stood awkwardly by, unwilling to remain a useless intruder, but just as reluctant to desert friends in trouble. Presently he bethought himself that work was still to do in inquiry how the old man’s hurt had befallen, whether by accident or attack; perhaps, indeed, to inform the police, and that in good time. So he asked, turning his hat about in his hands, if there was anything else he could do.

“Nothing more, Smallpiece, thanks,” the doctor said, with an unmistakable lift of the brows and a glance at the door.

“God bless you for helpin’ us, Mr. Smallpiece,” Mrs. May said as she let him out. “I’ll let you know how he is in the mornin’ if you can’t call.” And when the door was shut, “Go to bed, Johnny, my boy, and take a rest.” But Johnny went no farther than the stairs, and sat there with his sister.

The old man’s muttering ceased wholly, and he breathed heavily, stertorously. The doctor rose to his feet and turned to Mrs. May.

“Won’t you tell me, sir,” she said. “Is it—is it—”

“It is very serious,” the doctor said gravely; and added with impressive slowness, “very serious indeed.”

The woman took a grip of the table, and caught three quick breaths.

“You must keep yourself calm, and you must bear up. You must prepare yourself—in case of something very bad indeed.”

Twice she tried to speak, but was mute; and then, “No hope?” she said, more to sight than to hearing.

He put his hand kindly on her shoulder. “It would be wrong of me to encourage it,” he said. “As for what I can do, it is all over. . . . But you must bear up,” he went on firmly, as, guided to a chair, she bent forward and covered her face. “Drink this—” He took a small bottle from his bag, poured something into a cup and added water. “Drink it—drink it up; all of it. . . . I must go. . . . You’ve your children to think of, remember. Come to your mother, my boy. . . . ”He was gone, and the children stood with their arms about their mother. The old man’s breathing, which had grown heavier and louder still, presently eased again, and his eyes closed drowsily. At this the woman looked up with an impossible hope in her heart. Truly, the breath was soft and natural, and the drawn lines had gone from the face: he must be sleeping. Why had she not thought to ask Bob Smallpiece to carry him up to bed? And why had the doctor not ordered it? Softly she turned the wet cloth that lay over the wound.

The breath grew lighter and still lighter, and more peaceful the face, till one might almost trace a smile. Quieter and quieter, and still more peaceful: till all was peace indeed.