He had sprung from the carriage to a hansom cab almost before the train had pulled up, and in another moment was clattering over the stones towards the hospital.
The hopes of a few minutes before oozed away as every street corner brought him nearer his destination, and when at last the stately front of Saint Nathaniel's loomed before him, he wished his journey could never end.

He gazed with faltering heart up at the ward windows, as if he could read his fate there.

The place seemed deserted.

A few street boys were playing on the pavement, and at the door of the in-patients' ward a little cluster of visitors were collected round a flower stall buying sweet mementoes of the country to brighten the bedsides of their friends within.

No one heeded the pale scared boy as he alighted and went up the steps.
A porter opened the door.
"My father, Mr Cruden, is here; how is he ?" "Is it the gentleman that was brought in in a fit ?" "Yes, in his carriage--is he better ?" "Will you step in and see the doctor ?" The doctor was not in his room when the boy was ushered in, and it seemed an age before he entered.
"You are Mr Cruden's son ?" said he gravely.
"Yes--is he better ?" "He was brought here about half-past three, insensible, with apoplexy." "Is he better now ?" asked Horace again, knowing perfectly well what the dreaded answer would be.
"He is not, my boy," said the doctor gravely.