"I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the crest
of Gunter's Hill," and he pointed to an eminence in front of them, "is a
mile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's Hill perhaps
we shall know. I left home two hours ago, and then Barbara lay almost at
the point of death; insensible."

"Insensible," muttered Anthony. "Oh! my God, insensible."

"Yes," went on the clergyman in a voice of patient resignation. "I don't
understand much about such things, but the inflammation appears to have
culminated that way. Now either she will never wake again, or if she
wakes she may live. At least that is what they tell me, but they may be
wrong. I have so often known doctors to be wrong."

They walked on together in silence twenty yards or more. Then he added
as though speaking to himself:

"When we reach the top of Gunter's Hill perhaps we shall learn. We can
see her window from there, and if she had passed away I bade them pull
the blind down; if she was about the same, to pull it half down, and if
she were really better, to leave it quite up. I have done that for two
nights now, so that I might have a little time to prepare myself. It is
a good plan, though very trying to a father's heart. Yesterday I stood
for quite a while with my eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to look
and learn the truth."

Anthony groaned, and once more the old man went on:

"She is a very unselfish girl, Barbara, or perhaps I should say