other physician was summoned, and the two worked over the unconscious form together, while Mr. Hamilton, his face drawn and white, paced anxiously up and down in the hall outside the room.
Suddenly there sounded the patter of feet on the stairs, and, a moment later, something was muzzling Mr. Hamilton's legs, while a gentle whine begged his attention.
"What is it. Grit, old boy?" he asked, huskily, as he reached over and patted the big bulldog's head. "You know something's wrong, don't you? Well—maybe it—maybe it will be all right."
The dog whined and sniffed at the door of the room where the unconscious form of his master lay.
"No—no—not now, Grit, old boy," said Mr. Hamilton, softly, and Grit with a look as much as to say that he knew what was going on, stretched out—a grim guardian at the portal of the silent chamber.
Then, from the room, came a voice, at the sound of which the dog gave a joyous bark, and then, as though conscious that he had done wrong, he changed it to a whine. Mr. Hamilton, with wildly beating heart, heard his son murmur:
"Oh, it's cold, so cold! Where am I? Is the fire out? Did I run down any boats?"
Then came the calm voices of the doctors, urging their patient to be quiet.
But this was more than Grit could do. His
