LITMIR.BIZ

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did not speak. He pressed his father's hand hard, and then, letting it fall, he walked over to the hearthrug, and stood with his hands behind him, looking into the fire.

      'Come back; come here!' said the wavering voice from the bed. 'I want you, Dick.'

      'Can't I do something for you, dad?' he said, in very much lower tones than usual, as he sat down again by the bed. He kept his face in the shadow of the curtain.

      'We've always got on very well together, Dick.'

      'Yes—we've been very good friends.'

      'I wish you were as good friends with your brother as you are with your old father.'

      'I'm not bad friends with him; and, after all, your father's your father, and that makes all the difference.'

      'Your brother will soon be the nearest thing in the world to you. Oh, my boy,' said old Ferrier, suddenly raising himself on his elbow, and clasping Dick's strong right hand in both his, 'for God's sake, don't quarrel with him! If you ever cared for me, keep friends with him. If you and he weren't friends, I couldn't lie easy in my grave. And it's been a long life—I should like to lie easy at last!'

      'I don't quarrel with him, father.'

      'Well, lad—well, I've thought you did; perhaps I'm wrong. Anyway, don't quarrel—if it's only for your old dad's sake. I've loved you both so dearly.'

      'I will try to do everything you wish.'

      'I know you will, Dick. You always have done that. Was that Roland just came in? If it is, send him to me.'

      The young man stood silently for a few moments. Then he bent down over his father and kissed his forehead twice. When he left the room he met a servant on the landing.

      'Is Mr Roland at home yet?'

      'Yes, sir; he's just come in.'

      'Tell him Mr Ferrier wishes to see him at once.'

      'Miss Ferrier told him, sir, directly he came in.'

      He turned and went to his own room.

      A quarter of an hour later Roland stood outside his father's door. He opened it gently, and entered, his slippered feet treading the floor of the sick-room as silently as a nurse's.

      As he stood a moment in the dim light, eyes less keen and less expectant than those looking at him from the bed might have easily mistaken him for his brother. The slight difference in breadth of shoulder and depth of chest was concealed by the loose indoor jacket he wore. There was no trace about him of his wet and muddy walk, and he looked altogether a much fitter occupant for the easy-chair that stood at the sick man's bedside than the stalwart, weather-stained, and unsympathetic-looking figure that had last sat in it.

      'Rowley, why didn't you come before?' began the old man.

      'Oh, I couldn't, father. It is a beastly night. I was awfully wet and muddy. I only waited to change my things, and make myself presentable. How are you to-night?'

      'Your brother came up wet enough,' was all the answer.

      'Did he? What a careless fellow he is. He never seems to think of that sort of thing.'

      'Oh, well, I suppose you didn't know.'

      'Know what, father?'

      'How much I wanted to see you.'

      'Why, no, of course I didn't,' said Roland in an altered tone, and with a look of new anxiety in his face. 'What is it, father? I thought you were better to-day.'

      'I shall never be better, lad. Doctor Gibson told me so, and I know he's right. You and Dick will soon be masters here. But don't worry, Rowley,' he added, catching both his son's arms; 'it was bound to come some day.'

      For a moment the young man had hardly seemed to realise what the words meant; but now a long, anxious, eager look at his father's face made the truth clear to him. An intense anguish came into his face, and throwing his arms round the other's neck, he fell on his knees in a burst of passionate tears.

      'Oh, father, father, no, no—not yet—don't say that—I can't do without you. Oh, why have I left you since you have been ill?'

      The old man caressed him silently. There was a sort of pleasure in feeling oneself regretted with this passion of sorrow and longing. After a while.

      'Rowley,' said he, as the sobs grew less frequent and less violent, 'I'm going to ask you to do something for me.'

      'Anything you like, father—the harder the better.'

      'It ought not to be very hard to you, my son. Promise me that you will always keep good friends with Dick.'

      'Yes—yes—I will, indeed.'

      But little more was said. Roland seemed unable to utter anything save incoherent protestations of love and sorrow.

      At last, warned by the weariness that was creeping into his father's face, he bade him a very tender and lingering good-night.

      'Have me called at once if you are worse—or if I can do anything,' were his last words as he left the room.

      The watchful woman's face was by the bed again in an instant.

      'I want—' the old man began.

      'You want your beef tea, Richard, and here it is.'

      As he took it he asked,—

      'Is it too late to send for Gates?'

      'Oh, no; and it's such a little way for him to come.'

      Mr Gates was a member of a firm of Stockport solicitors, and his country house was but a stone's-throw from Thornsett Edge. It was not long before he in his turn occupied that chair by the bed. He bore with him an atmosphere of jollity which even the hush of that sick-room was powerless to dispel. He was not unsympathetic either, by any means, but he seemed made up of equal parts of kindheartedness and high spirits, and looked much more like an ideal country squire than like the ordinary legal adviser. As a matter of fact, he was more at home on the moor side or in the stubble than among dusty documents and leather-bound Acts of Parliament. It was his boast that he only had eight clients, and that he lived on them, and, judging by his appearance, they furnished uncommonly good living. He had a genial, hearty way with him which made him a favourite with every man, woman and child he came across, and he knew quite enough law to fully justify the confidence of the eight above mentioned.

      'What, Mr Ferrier, still in bed! Why, we thought old Gibson would have had you on your legs again in no time. I quite expected to see you driving over to the Wirksvale wakes to-morrow.'

      'I shall never go behind any but the black horses again, Gates. It's no use. I'm settled, and I want you to alter my will.'

      'I'll alter your will with pleasure, if you like. Though I must say it's so much more sensible than most people's wills that I wonder you want to alter it; but you mustn't talk of black horses and that sort of thing for another ten years. Don't lose heart; you'll live to alter your will a score of times yet.'

      In an eager, tremulous voice Ferrier begged the other to believe that his fate was sealed, and that whatever was done must be done quickly. Then he proceeded to explain the changes he wished to have made in the will. He told the lawyer, without any of that reserve which ordinarily characterised him, all his fears about his sons, and then unfolded the scheme by which he thought to bind the two together. He wished their worldly interests to be so strongly bound up in their relations to each other that a quarrel à outrance would mean ruin to both of them; and to this end he proposed to leave the mill to them jointly, on condition that they worked it together, and both took an active part in the management of it. Should they dissolve partnership before twenty-one years, or should either retire with consent of the other, the personal property was not to be touched by either, and at end of ten years—if they were both alive and still separated—the whole was to go to the Manchester Infirmary.

      Mr Gates noted this extraordinary scheme down on the back of an old letter, and when Mr Ferrier had ended, read his notes through and shook his head.

      'Far better leave it alone, Mr Ferrier; they seem the best of friends, and legacies like this never help

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