He went into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards.
Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,--'Your mother is still alive.' 'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and wringing the hand that pressed his.
'Is there any hope ?' he asked of Dr Richards.
'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to say--if we could rouse her ?' 'I may go upstairs ?' 'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the outer room.' Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times; he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside, groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father.

He went up softly to him and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and mother lay.
Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently vacated for him.

He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and fever of the past week.

He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept silently.

Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still continued to find a passage down the throat.