Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of the bell. Visions
of apoplexy--of--in fact, of any thing that might befall a testy
gentleman of seventy-three, inclined to make incessant trips to the
West Indies--rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He opened
it in hot haste.

There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved. At
the foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs.
Simcoe, with a bleeding boy's head resting upon her shoulder. The
coachman stood at the carriage door.

"Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy."

"Yes, miss," replied the man, as he ran down the steps.

The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out Gabriel.

They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch.
Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity, but he said in a loud
voice,

"It's all a conspiracy to get into the house, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. I'll
have bull-dogs--I'll have blunderbusses and spring-guns, Mrs. Simcoe,
ma'am! And what do you mean by fighting at my gate, Sir?" he said,
turning upon Little Malacca, who quivered under his wrath. "What are you
doing at my gate? Can't Mr. Gray keep his boys at home? Hope, go up
stairs!" said the old gentleman, as he reached the foot of the staircase.

But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient. Hope rubbed
the boy's hands, and put her own hand upon his forehead from time to