of those about her. Meanwhile Mr. Sutherland had stepped into the
house.

He found himself in a small hall with a staircase in front and an
open door at the left. On the threshold of this open door a man
stood, who at sight of him doffed his hat. Passing by this man,
Mr. Sutherland entered the room beyond. A table spread with
eatables met his view, beside which, in an attitude which struck
him at the moment as peculiar, sat Philemon Webb, the well-known
master of the house.

Astonished at seeing his old friend in this room and in such a
position, he was about to address him, when Mr. Fenton stopped
him.

"Wait!" said he. "Take a look at poor Philemon before you disturb
him. When we broke into the house a half-hour ago he was sitting
just as you see him now, and we have let him be for reasons you
can easily appreciate. Examine him closely, Mr. Sutherland; he
won't notice it."

"But what ails him? Why does he sit crouched against the table? Is
he hurt too?"

"No; look at his eyes."

Mr. Sutherland stooped and pushed aside the long grey locks that
half concealed the countenance of his aged friend.

"Why," he cried, startled, "they are closed! He isn't dead?"