After her exciting and fatiguing day, Corona slept long and heavily, and when she reached the family sitting room she found her two uncles there in conversation.

“I am sorry I kept you waiting, Uncle Fabian,” she said, hurriedly.

“You have not done so, my dear.  The bell has not yet rung.”

“Then I’m glad.  Good morning, Clarence,” she said, turning to her younger uncle.

“Good morning, Cora.  How did you sleep?”

“Perfectly, Clarence dear.  I hope you will set out for North End immediately after breakfast.  I shall not start for Washington until to-night.  I shall spend the day here, so that after telling Violet of my intended journey I may have some little time to reconcile her to it.”

“How good you are, Cora.  I do appreciate this consideration for Violet,” said Mr. Fabian earnestly.

“It is only her due, uncle.  Well, Clarence, since you are determined to escort me to Washington, whether or not, you may meet me at the depot for the 6:30 express.  I feel that it is every way better that I should go by the night train; better for Violet, with whom I can thus spend a few more hours, and better for Clarence, who need not by this arrangement lose this day’s work.”

“Quite so,” assented Mr. Fabian.  “And now,” he added, as light footsteps were heard approaching the room, “here comes Violet.  Not a word about the journey until after breakfast.”

They all went into the breakfast room, where a fragrant, appetizing morning meal was spread.

How different this was from the breakfast at Rockhold on the preceding-day, darkened by the sullen wrath of the Iron King and eaten in the most gloomy silence!  Here were affectionate attentions and jests and laughter.  Violet was in such gay spirits that her vivacity became contagious, and Fabian and Clarence often laughed aloud, and Corona was won to smile at her sallies.

At last Mr. Fabian arose with a sigh, half of satisfied appetite, half of reluctance to leave the scene, and said: 

“Well, I suppose we must be moving.  Clarence, will you drive with me to North End?”

“Certainly.  That is all arranged, you know,” replied the younger brother.

“Mr. Fabian walked out into the hall, saying as he left the breakfast room: 

“Corona, a word with you, my dear.”

Corona went to him, and he said: 

“After you have had an explanation with Violet, persuade her to accompany you to North End.  You had better come in your own pony carriage, my dear; it is so easy and the horse so safe.  And then, after you have left us, I can drive her home in the same vehicle.  And, by the way, my dear, what shall you do with that little turnout?  Shall I send it to Hyde’s livery stable for sale?  You can get double what was given for it.  And remit you the price?”

“No, Uncle Fabian; it is not to be sold.  And I am glad you reminded me of it.  I have intended all along to give it to our minister’s wife.  She has no carriage of any sort, and she really needs one, and she will enjoy this because she can drive the pony herself.  So, after I have gone, will you please send it to Mrs. Melville, with my love?”

“Certainly, my dear; with the greatest pleasure.  Cora, that is well thought of.  Now I must go up to the nursery and bid good-by to baby, or her mother would never forgive me.”

And high and heavy Mr. Fabian tripped up the stairs like a lamplighter.

Corona lingered in the hall, talking with Mr. Clarence, who had now come there to put on his overcoat.  Presently Mr. Fabian came hurrying down stairs alone.  He had left Violet in the sanctuary.

“Come, come, Clarence, hurry up!  We are late!  What if the monarch should reach the works before us?  I shouldn’t like to meet him in his roused wrath!  Should you?

    “Old age ne’er cooled the Douglass blood!”

said Mr. Fabian, hurriedly pulling on his overcoat, seizing hat and gloves, and with a hasty-

“Good-by, Cora, until to-night,” hurried out of the front door.

He need not have been in such haste-the Iron King was not destined to reach North End in advance of his sons that morning.

Mr. Clarence kissed Corona good-by, and hurried after his elder brother, and then stopped short at what he saw.

Mr. Fabian was standing before the carriage door with one foot on the step.

Beside him was a horseman who had just ridden up-the horse in a lather of foam, the man breathless and dazed-telling some news in broken sentences; Mr. Fabian listening pallid and aghast.

“Great Heaven! how sudden! how shocking!” he exclaimed at last, turning back toward the house, and hurrying up the steps.

“What is it?  What is the matter?  What has happened, Fabian?” anxiously demanded Clarence.

“The father has had a stroke!  No time for particulars now!  Take the fastest horse in the stable and go yourself to North End to fetch the doctor.  You can bring him sooner than any servant.  I must go directly on to Rockhold.  Cora must delay her journey again.  Be off, Clarence!” said Mr. Fabian.

And while the elder brother returned to the house, the younger went to get his horse.

“Cora!” called Mr. Fabian.

Corona came out of the parlor.

“You cannot go away to-day.”

“Why?” inquired the young lady.

“Don’t talk!  Listen!  Your grandfather is ill-very ill.  Old John has just come from Rockhold to tell me.”

“Oh!  I am very sorry.”

“No time for words!  Go put on your bonnet, and come along with me; the carriage that was to have taken me to North End must take us both to Rockhold.  Hurry, Cora.”

“But Violet?”

“I will go and tell Violet that the grandfather is not feeling very well, and has sent for you.  I can do this while you are getting ready to go.  Then come into the nursery and bid Violet good-by.”

Corona hurried up to her room, and quickly put on her bonnet and fur-lined cloak, and then ran into the nursery, where she found Violet nursing her baby, looking serious but composed, and evidently unconscious of old Aaron Rockharrt’s danger.  Mr. Fabian was standing at the back of her chair, so that she might not read the truth in his face.

“So you are going home so suddenly, Cora, dear?  I am so sorry the father is not feeling well that I cannot even ask you to stay here a moment longer.  Give my love to the father, and tell him if he does not get better in a day or two I shall be sure to come and nurse him.”

She could not rise without disturbing her precious baby, but she raised her head and put up her lips, that Cora might kiss her good-by.  Then Cora followed her uncle down stairs, and in five minutes more they were seated in the carriage, slowly winding their way down the dangerous mountain pass to the river road that led to Rockhold.

“Uncle Fabian,” said Corona, gravely, “I have been trying to think what is right for me to do.  This sorrowful news took me so completely by surprise, and your directions were so prompt and peremptory, that I had not a moment for reflection; so that I followed your lead automatically.  But now, Uncle Fabian, I have considered, and I ask you as I have asked myself-am I right in going back to Rockhold, after my grandfather has sent me away, and forbidden me ever to return?  Tell me, Uncle Fabian.”

“My dear, what do you yourself wish to do?” he inquired.

“To return to Rockhold and nurse my grandfather, if he will allow me to do so.”

“Then by all means do so.”

“But, Uncle Fabian-against my grandfather’s express command?”

“Good Heaven, girl!” Those ‘commands’ were issued by a well and angry man.  You are returning to minister to an ill and perhaps a dying one.”

“Still, Uncle Fabian, would it not seem to be taking advantage of my grandfather’s helpless state to return now, after he had forbidden me to enter his house?  I think it would.  And the more I reflect upon the subject, the surer I feel that I ought not to enter Rockhold unbidden.  And-I will not.”

“You will not!  What!  Can you show resentment to your stricken-it may be dying-grandfather?”

“Heaven forbid!  But I must not disobey his injunction, now that he is too helpless to prevent me.  No, Uncle Fabian, I must not enter the house.  But neither will I be far from it.  I will remain within call.”

“Where?”

“At the ferryman’s cottage.  Will you, Uncle Fabian, as soon as you have an opportunity, say that I am deeply grieved for all that has estranged us.  Will you ask him to forgive me and let me come to him?”

“Yes; I will do so, my dear, if there is an opportunity.  But, Cora, I think you are morbidly scrupulous.  I think that you should come to the house.  He may wish to see you if he should have a lucid interval, and there may not be time to send for you.”

“I must risk that rather than disobey him in his extremity.”

“As you will,” replied Mr. Fabian.  And no more was said on the subject.

When they reached the foot of the mountain and the level of the river road, the horses were put upon their speed, and they soon arrived at Rockhold.

“I will wait in the carriage until you go in and inquire how he is,” said Corona, as the vehicle drew up before the front door.

Mr. Fabian got out and hurried up the steps.  The door stood open, cold as the day was, and all things wore the neglected aspect of a dwelling wherein the master lay stricken unto death.  The housekeeper, Martha, was coming down the stairs and crying.

“How is your master?” breathlessly inquired Mr. Fabian.

“Oh, Marse Fabe, sir, jes’ livin’, an’ dat’s all!” sobbed the woman.  “Dunno nuffin.  Layin’ dere jes’ like a dead corpe, ‘cept for breavin’ hard,” wept the woman.

“Who is with him?”

“Me mos’ times an’ young Mark.  I jes’ come down to speak ‘long o’ you, Marse Fabe, w’en I see de carriage dribe up.”

“Well, go back to your master.  I will speak to my niece, and then come in,” said Mr. Fabian, as he hurried out to the carriage.  All his interview with the housekeeper had not occupied two minutes, but Cora was pale with suspense and anxiety.

“How is he?” she panted.

“Unconscious, my poor girl.  Oh, Cora! come in!”

“No, no; I must not.  Not until he permits me.  I will stop at the ferryman’s cottage.  Oh, if he should recover consciousness-oh, Uncle Fabian, ask him to let me come to him, and send me word.”

“Yes, yes; I will do it.  I must go to him now.  Charles,” he said, turning to the coachman, “drive Mrs. Rothsay down to the ferry house, and then take the carriage to the stables.”

And then, with a grave nod to Corona, Mr. Fabian re-entered the house.  The coachman drove the carriage down to the ferryman’s cottage and drew up.  The door was open and the cottage was empty.

“Boat on t’other side, ma’am,” said Charles.

“For the doctor, I suppose-and hope,” said Corona, looking across the river, and seeing a gig with two men coming on to the ferryboat.

She watched from the door of the ferryman’s cottage while Charles drove off the empty carriage toward the stables and the two ferrymen poled their boat across the river.  She retreated within the house before the boat touched the land, for she knew that the doctor, if he should see her there, would wonder why she was not at her grandfather’s bedside, and perhaps-as he was an old friend-he might ask questions which she would find it embarrassing to answer.  The boat touched the shore; the gig, containing the doctor and Mr. Clarence, rolled off the boat on along the drive leading to the house.

Meanwhile Mr. Fabian had re-entered the hall and hurried up to his father’s room.  He found the Iron King in bed, lying on his right side and breathing heavily.  His eyes were half closed.

“Father,” said the son, in a low voice, taking his hand and bending over him.

There was no response.

“It ain’t no use, Marster Fabe.  Yer can’t rouse him, do wot yer will.  Better wait till de doctor come, young marse.  I done been tried all I knowed how, but it wa’n’t no use,” said Martha, who stood on the other side of the bed watching her insensible master.

“Tell me when this happened.  Come away to the upper end of the room and tell me about it.”

“Might’s well tell yer right here, marse.  ’Twon’t sturve him.  Lor! thunder wouldn’t sturve him, the way he is in.”

“Then tell me, how was it?  When was he stricken?”

“We don’t know, marse.  He was found jes’ dis way by John dis mornin’-not jes zackly dis way, howaseber, case he was a-layin’ on his lef side, w’ich was berry bad; so me an’ John turn him ober jes so like he is a-layin’ now.  Den we sent right off for you, marse, to ketch yer at home ’fore yer went to de works.”

“Did he seem well when he came home last night?’

“Jes ‘bout as ujual, marse.  He came in, an’ John he waited on him.  An he ax, olé marse did, ‘was Mrs. Rossay gone?’ W’ich John tole him she were.  Den he ordered dinner to be fotch up.  An’ John he had a pitcher ob hot punch ready.  An’ olé marse drank some.  Den he went in to dinner all by hisself.  An’ young Mark he waited on de table, w’ich he tell me, w’en I ax him dis mornin’, how de olé marse eat much as ujual, wid a good relish.  Den arter dinner he went to de liberairy and sot dere a long time.  Olé John say it were midnight ‘fo’ de olé marse walk up stairs an’ call him to wait on him.”

“Was John the last one who saw my father before he was found unconscious this morning?”

“Hi! yes, young marse, to be sure he were.  De las’ to see de olé marse in healt’ las’ night, an’ de firs’ to fine him dis way dis mornin’.”

“How came he to find his master in this condition?”

“It was dis way.  Yer know, young marse, as dere is two keys to olé marser’s do’, w’ich olé marse keeps one in his room to lock hisse’f in, an’ John keeps one to let hisse’f in wen de olé marse rings for him in de mornin’.”

“Yes; I know.”

“Well, dis mornin’ de olé marse didn’t ring at his ujual hour.  An’ de time passed, an’ de breakfast were ready an’ spilin’.  So I tole John how he better go up an’ see if olé marse was well, how maybe he didn’ feel like gettin’ up an’ might want to take his breakfas’ in bed.  But Lor!  I nebber participated sich a sarious ’tack as dis.  Well, den, John he went an’ rapped soft like.  But he didn’t get no answer.  Den he rap little louder.  But still no answer.  Den John he got scared, awful scared.  Las’ John he plucks up courage, an’ unlocks de do’, slow an’ saf’, an’ goes in on tiptoe to de bedside, an’-an’-an-dis yer is wot he seen.  He t’ought his olé marse were dead sure, an’ he come howlin’ an’ tumblin’ down to me, an’ tole me so, an’ I called young Mark to follow me, case olé John wa’n’t no good, an’ I run up yere, an’-an’-an’ dis yer is wot I foun’!  O’ly he were a layin’ on his lef side, an’ I see he were breavin’ an’ I turn’ him ober on his right, an’ did all I could for him, an’ sent John arter you.”

“I wish the doctor would come,” said Mr. Fabian, anxiously, as he took his father’s hand again and tried to feel the pulse.

The door opened very quietly, and Clarence came into the room.  Fabian beckoned him to approach the bed.

“How is he?” inquired the younger man.

“As you see!  He was found in this condition by his servant this morning.  He has shown no sign of consciousness since,” replied the elder.

“The doctor is below.  Shall he come up now?”

“Certainly.”

Clarence left the room and soon returned with the physician.  After a very brief examination of pulse, temperature, the pupils of the eyes of the patient, prompt measures were taken to relieve the evident pressure on the brain.  The doctor bled the sufferer, who presently opened his eyes, and looked slowly around his bed.  His two sons bent over him.

He tried to speak.

They bent lower still to listen.

After several futile efforts he uttered one word: 

“Cora.”

“Yes, father-she is here.  Go, Clarence, and fetch her at once.  She is at the ferryman’s cottage.”

The last sentence was added in a low whisper.  Clarence immediately left the room to do his errand.  A few minutes later the door opened softly, and Clarence re-entered the room with Cora.

Mr. Fabian went to meet her, saying softly: 

“He has called for you, my dear!  The only word he has spoken since he recovered consciousness was your name.”

“So Uncle Clarence told me,” she said, in a broken voice.

“Come to him now,” said Fabian, leading her to the bedside.

She sank on her knees and took the hand of the dying man and kissed it, pleading: 

“Grandfather, dear grandfather, I love you.  I am grieved at having offended you.  Will you forgive me-now?”

He made several painful efforts to answer her, before he uttered the few disconnected words: 

“Yes-forgive-you-Cora.”

She bathed his hand with her tears.  All on her part also was forgotten now-all the harshness and despotism of years was forgotten now, and nothing was remembered but the gray-haired man, always gray-haired in her knowledge of him, who had protected her orphanage and given her a home and an education.  She knelt there, holding his hand, and was presently touched and comforted because the lingers of that hand closed on hers with a loving pressure that they had never given her in all her life before.  That was the last sign of consciousness he gave for many hours.

Mr. Fabian took the doctor aside.

“Ought I to send for my wife?” he inquired.

“Yes; I think so,” replied the physician.

And the son knew that answer was his father’s sentence of death.  Not one of the family could be spared from this death bed to go and fetch Violet.  So Mr. Fabian went down stairs to the library and wrote a hasty note: 

DEAR VIOLET:  You offered to come and help to nurse the father, who is sicker than we thought, but with no contagious fever.  Come now, dear, and bring baby and nurse, for you may have to stay several days.

    FABIAN.

He inclosed this letter in an envelope, sealed and directed it, and took it down to the stable, where he found his own groom Charles in the coachman’s room.

“Put the horses to the carriage again, and return to Violet Banks to bring your mistress here.  Give her this note.  It will explain all,” said Mr. Fabian, handing the note to the servant.

He found the same group around the death bed.  Clarence and the doctor standing on the left side, Cora kneeling by the right side, still holding the hand of the dying man, whose fingers were closed upon hers and whose face was turned toward hers, but with “no speculation” in it.  Two hours passed away without any change.  The sound of wheels without could be heard through the profound stillness of the death chamber.  Mr. Fabian again left the room to receive his wife.

He met Violet in the hall, just as old John had admitted her.  She was closely followed by the nurse and the child.

“How is father?” she inquired.

“He is very ill, my dear, but resting quietly just at present.  Here is Martha; she will take you to your room and make you and the baby comfortable.  Then, as soon as you can, come to the father’s chamber; you know where to find it,” said Mr. Fabian, who feared to shock his sensitive wife by telling her that he was sinking fast, and thought that it would be safer to let her come into the room and join the group around the bed, and gradually learn the sad truth by her own observation.

“Yes; I can find my way very well,” answered Violet, as she handed her bag, shawl, and umbrella to Martha, and followed the housekeeper up stairs, with the nurse and baby.

Mr. Fabian returned to the chamber of the dying man, around whose bed the group remained as he had left it, and where in a very few minutes he was joined by Violet.  She entered the room very softly, so that her approach was not heard until she reached the bedside.  Then she took and silently pressed the hands that were silently held out by Cora, and finally she knelt down beside her.

More hours passed; no one left the sick room, for no one knew how soon the end might come.  Old John thoughtfully brought in a waiter of refreshments and set it down on a side table for any one who might require it.

Day declined.  Through the front windows of the death room the western sky could be seen, dark, lowering, and stormy.  A long range of heavy clouds lay massed above the horizon, obscuring the light of the sinking sun, but leaving a narrow line of clear sky just along the top of the western ridge.

Presently a singularly beautiful effect was produced.  The sun, sinking below the dark cloud into the clear gold line of sky, sent forth a blaze of light from the mountain heights, across the river, and into the chamber of death!  Was it this sudden illumination that kindled the fire of life in the dying man into a last expiring flame, or was it indeed the presence of a spiritual visitant, visible only to the vanishing spirit?  Who can tell?

Suddenly old Aaron Rockharrt opened his eyes-those great, strong black eyes that had ever been a terror to the evil doer-and the well doer also-and stared before him, held up his hands and exclaimed: 

“Deborah!  Deborah!”

And then he dropped his arms by his side, and with a long, deep-drawn sigh fell asleep.  The name of his old wife was the last word upon his dying lips.

No one but the doctor knew what had happened.  He bent over the lifeless shell, gazed on the face, felt the pulse, felt the heart, and then stood up and said: 

“All is over, my dear friends.  His passage has been quite painless.  I never saw an easier death.”

And he drew up the sheet over the face of the dead.

Although all day they had hourly expected this end, yet now they could not quite believe that it had indeed come.

The huge, strong man, the rugged Iron King-dead?  He who, if not as indestructible as he seemed, was at least constituted of that stern stuff of which centenarians are made, and whom all expected should live far up into the eighties or nineties-dead?  The father who had lived over them like some mighty governing and protecting power all their lives, necessary, inevitable, inseparable from their lives-dead?

“Come, my dear,” said Mr. Clarence, gently raising Corona and leading her away.  “You have this to console you:  he died reconciled to you, holding your hand in his to the last.”

“Ah, dear Uncle Clarence, you have much more to console you, for you never failed even once in your duty to him, and never gave him one moment of uneasiness in all your life,” replied Corona, as she left him in front of her old room.

She entered and shut the door and gave way to the natural grief that overwhelmed her for a time.

When she was sufficiently composed she sat down and wrote to her brother, informing him of what had occurred, and telling him that she still held her purpose of going out to him with the Nevilles.