My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was
worse--was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, too late summoned
to his bedside.

I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my uncle's
door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear,
but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, but
without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had
disappeared.

I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, and
persuade her to undertake a reconnoissance. The fact is, I was persuaded
that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor's
opinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her
refreshing nap. So, as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my bed,
where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell asleep.

In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came Milly.

'How is Uncle Silas?' I eagerly enquired.

'Old L'Amour says he's queerish still; but he's not so dull as yesterday,'
answered she.

'Was not the doctor sent for?' I asked.

'Was he? Well, that's odd; and she said never a word o't to me,' answered
she.

'I'm asking only,' said I.