The Rector fixed his gaze upon the sick man. It was as though the
question of the letter were put to him through those parched lips. And as
he looked, Bateson opened his eyes.

"Be that you, Rector?" he said, in a clear voice.

"I've been sitting up with you, Bateson. Can you take a little brandy and
milk, do you think?"

The patient submitted, and the Rector, with a tender and skilful touch,
made him comfortable on his pillows and smoothed the bedclothes.

"Where's my wife?" he said presently, looking round the room.

"She's sleeping downstairs."

"I want her to come up."

"Better not ask her. She seems ill and tired."

The sick man smiled--a slight and scornful smile.

"She'll ha' time enough presently to be tired. You goa an' ask her."

"I'd rather not leave you, Bateson. You're very ill."

"Then take that stick then, an' rap on the floor. She'll hear tha fast
enough."

The Rector hesitated, but only for a moment. He took the stick and