In the old porch at Ashlydyat, of which you have heard so much, sat Thomas Godolphin. An invalid chair had been placed there, and he lay back on its pillows in the sun of the late autumn afternoon. A warm, sunny autumn had it been; a real “EtÉ de St. Martin.” He was feeling wondrously well; almost, but for his ever-present sensation of weakness, quite well. His fatigue of the previous day—that of Cecil’s wedding—had left no permanent effects upon him, and had he not known thoroughly his own hopeless state, he might have fancied this afternoon that he was about to get well all one way.

Not in looks. Pale, wan, ghastly were they; the shadow of the grim, implacable visitor that was so soon to come was already on them; but the face in its stillness told of ineffable peace: the brunt of the storm had passed.

The white walls of Lady Godolphin’s Folly glittered brightly in the distance; the dark-blue sky was seen through the branches of the trees, growing bare and more bare against the coming winter; the warm sun rays fell on Thomas Godolphin. Margery came up, and he held out his hand.

“My mistress told me you’d have said good-bye to me yesterday, Mr. Thomas, and it was just my ill-luck to be out. I had gone to take the child’s shoes to be mended—she wears them out fast. But you are not going to leave us yet, sir?”

“I know not how soon it may be, Margery: very long it cannot be. Sit down.”

She stood yet, however, looking at him, disregarding the bench to which he had pointed; stood with a saddened expression and compressed lips. Margery’s was an experienced eye, and it may be that she saw the shadow which had taken up its abode on his face.

“You are going to see my old master and mistress, sir,” she burst forth, dashing some rebellious moisture from her eyes. “Mr. Thomas, do you recollect it?—my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very day she died.”

“I remember it well, Margery. I am dying quietly, thank God, as my mother died.”

“And what a blessing it is when folks can die quietly, with their conscience and all about ’em at peace!” ejaculated Margery. “I wonder how Mr. George would have took it, if he’d been called instead of you, sir?”

There was considerable acidity, not to say sarcasm, in the remark; perhaps not altogether suited to the scene and interview. Good Thomas Godolphin would not see it or appear to notice it. He took Margery’s hands in his.

“I never thought once that I should die leaving you in debt, Margery,” he said, his earnest tone bearing its own emotion. “It was always my intention to bequeath you an annuity that would have kept you from want in your old age. But it has been decreed otherwise; and it is of no use to speak of what might have been. Miss Janet will refund to you by degrees what you have lost in the Bank; and so long as you live you will be welcome to a home with her. She has not much, but——”

“Now never fash yourself about me, Mr. Thomas,” interrupted Margery. “I shall do well, I dare say; I’m young enough yet for work, I hope; I shan’t starve. Ah, this world’s nothing but a pack o’ troubles,” she added, with a loud sigh. “It has brought its share to you, sir.”

“I am on the threshold of a better, Margery,” was his quiet answer; “one where troubles cannot enter.”

Margery sat for some time on the bench, talking to him. At length she rose to depart, declining the invitation to enter the house or to see the ladies, and Thomas said to her his last farewell.

“My late missis, I remember, looked once or twice during her illness as grey as he does,” she cogitated within herself as she went along. “But it strikes me that with him it’s death. I’ve a great mind to ask old Snow what he thinks. If it is so, Mr. George ought to be telegraphed for; they are brothers, after all.”

Margery’s way led her past the turning to the railway station. A train was just in. She cast an eye on the passengers coming from it, and in one of them she saw her master, Mr. George Godolphin.

Margery halted and rubbed her eyes, and almost wondered whether it was a vision. Her mind had been busy with the question, ought he, or ought he not to be telegraphed for? and there he was, before her. Gay, handsome George! with his ever-distinguished entourage—I don’t know a better word for it in English: his bearing, his attire, his person so essentially the gentleman; his pleasant face and his winning smile.

That smile was directed to Margery as he came up. He bore in his hand a small wicker-work basket, covered with delicate tissue paper. But for the bent of Margery’s thoughts at the time, she would not have been particularly surprised at the sight, for Mr. George’s visits to Prior’s Ash were generally impromptu ones, paid without warning. She met him rather eagerly: speaking of the impulse that had been in her mind—to send a message for him, on account of the state of his brother.

“Is he worse?” asked George eagerly.

“If ever I saw death written in a face, it’s written in his, sir,” returned Margery.

George considered a moment. “I think I will go up to Ashlydyat without loss of time, then,” he said, turning back. But he stopped to give the basket into Margery’s hands.

“It is for your mistress, Margery. How is she?”

“She’s nothing to boast of,” replied Margery, in tones and with a stress that might have awakened George’s suspicions, had any fears with reference to his wife’s state yet penetrated his mind. But they had not. “I wish she could get a little of life into her, and then health might be the next thing to come,” concluded Margery. “Tell her I shall soon be home.” And George Godolphin proceeded to Ashlydyat.

It may be that he had not the faculty for distinguishing the different indications that a countenance gives forth, or it may be that to find his brother sitting in the porch disarmed his doubts, but certainly George saw no reason to endorse the fears expressed by Margery. She had entered into no details, and George had pictured Thomas as in bed. To see him therefore sitting out of doors, quietly reading, certainly lulled all George’s present fears.

Not that the ravages in the worn form, the grey look in the pale face, did not strike him as that face was lifted to his; struck him almost with awe. For a few minutes their hands were locked together in silence. Generous Thomas Godolphin! Never since the proceedings had terminated, the daily details were over, had he breathed a word of the bankruptcy and its unhappiness to George.

“George, I am glad to see you. I have been wishing for you all day. I think you must have been sent here purposely.”

“Margery sent me. I met her as I was coming from the train.”

It was not to Margery that Thomas Godolphin had alluded—but he let it pass. “Sent purposely,” he repeated aloud. “George, I think the end is very near.”

“But you are surely better?” returned George, speaking in impulse. “Unless you were better, would you be sitting here?”

“Do you remember, George, my mother sat here in the afternoon of the day she died? A feeling came over me to-day that I should enjoy a breath of the open air; but it was not until after they had brought my chair out and I was installed in it, that I thought of my mother. It struck me as being a curious coincidence; almost an omen. Margery recollected the circumstance, and spoke of it.”

The words imparted a strange sensation to George, a shivering dread. “Are you in much pain, Thomas?” he asked.

“Not much; a little, at times; but the great agony that used to come upon me has quite passed. As it did with my mother, you know.”

Could George Godolphin help the feeling of bitter contrition that came over him? He had been less than man, lower than human, had he helped it. Perhaps the full self-reproach of his conduct never came home to him as it came now. With all his faults, his lightness, he loved his brother: and it seemed that it was he—he—who had made the face wan, the hair grey, who had broken the already sufficiently stricken heart, and had sent him to his grave before his time.

“It is my fault,” he spoke in his emotion. “But for me, Thomas, you might have been with us, at any rate, another year or two. The trouble has told upon you.”

“Yes, it has told upon me,” Thomas quietly answered. There was nothing else that he could answer.

“Don’t think of it, Thomas,” was the imploring prayer. “It cannot be helped now.”

“No, it cannot be helped,” Thomas rejoined. But he did not add that, even now, it was disturbing his death-bed. “George,” he said, pressing his brother’s hands, “but that it seems so great an improbability, I would ask you to repay to our poor neighbours and friends what they have lost, should it ever be in your power. Who knows but you may be rich some time? You are young and capable, and the world is before you. If so, think of them; it is my last request to you.”

“It would be my own wish to do it,” gravely answered George. “But do not think of it now, Thomas; do not let it trouble you.”

“It does not trouble me much now. The thought of the wrong inflicted on them is ever present with me, but I am content to leave that, and all else, in the care of the all-powerful, ever-merciful God. He can recompense better than I could, even had I my energies and life left to me.”

There was a pause. George loosed his brother’s hands and took the seat on the bench where Margery had sat; the very seat where he had once sat with his two sticks, in his weakness, years before, when the stranger, Mr. Appleby, came up and inquired for Mr. Verrall. Why or wherefore it should have come, George could not tell, but that day flashed over his memory now. Oh, the bitter remembrance! He had been a lightsome man then, without care, free from that depressing incubus that must, or that ought to, weigh down the soul—cruel wrong inflicted on his fellow-toilers in the great journey of life. And now? He had brought the evil of poverty upon himself, the taint of disgrace upon his name; he had driven his sisters from their home; had sent that fair and proud inheritance of the Godolphins, Ashlydyat, into the market; and had hastened the passage of his brother to the grave. Ay! dash your bright hair from your brow as you will, George Godolphin!—pass your cambric handkerchief over your heated face!—you cannot dash away remembrance. You have done all this, and the consciousness is very present with you.

Thomas Godolphin interrupted his reflections, bending towards George his wasted features. “George, what are your prospects?”

“I have tried to get into something or other in London, but my trying has been useless. All places that are worth having are so soon snapped up. I have been offered a post in Calcutta, and I think I shall accept it. If I find that Maria has no objection to go out, I shall: I came down to-day to talk it over with her.”

“Is it through Lord Averil?”

“Yes. He wrote to me yesterday morning before he went to church with Cecil. I received the letter by the evening mail, and came off this morning.”

“And what is the appointment? Is it in the civil service?”

“Nothing so grand—in sound, at any rate. It’s only mercantile. The situation is at an indigo merchant’s, or planter’s; I am not sure which. But it’s a good appointment; one that a gentleman may accept; and the pay is liberal. Lord Averil urges it upon me. These merchants—they are brothers—are friends of his. If I decline it, he will try for a civil appointment for me; but to obtain one might take a considerable time: and there might be other difficulties in the way.”

“Yes,” said Thomas shortly. “By the little I can judge, this appears to me to be just what will suit you.”

“I think so. If I accept it, I shall have to start with the new year. I saw the agents of the house in town this morning, and they tell me it is quite a first-class appointment for a mercantile one. I hope Maria will not dislike to go.”

They sat there conversing until the sun had set. George pointed out to his brother’s notice that the air was growing cold, but Thomas only smiled in answer: it was not the night air, hot or cold, that could any longer affect Thomas Godolphin. But he said that he might as well go in, and took George’s arm to support his feeble steps.

“Is no one at home?” inquired George, finding the usual sitting-room empty.

“They are at Lady Godolphin’s,” replied Thomas, alluding to his sisters. “Bessy goes there for good next week, and certain arrangements have to be made, so they walked over this afternoon just before you came up.”

George sat down. To find his sisters absent was a relief. Since the unhappy explosion, George had always felt as a guilty schoolboy in the presence of Janet. He remained a short time, and then rose to depart. “I’ll come up and see you in the morning, Thomas.”

Was there any prevision of what the night would bring forth in the mind of Thomas Godolphin? It might be. He entwined in his the hands held out to him.

“God bless you, George! God bless you, and keep you always!” And a lump, not at all familiar to George Godolphin’s throat, rose in it as he went out from the presence of his brother.

It was one of those charmingly clear evenings that bring a sensation of tranquillity to the senses. Daylight could not be said to have quite faded, but the moon was up, its rays shining brighter and brighter with every departing moment of day. As George passed Lady Godolphin’s Folly, Janet was coming from it.

He could not avoid her. I do not say that he wished to do so, but he could not if he had wished it. They stood talking together for some time; of Thomas’s state; of this Calcutta prospect of George’s, for Janet had heard something of it from Lord Averil; and she questioned him closely on other subjects. It was growing quite night when Janet made a movement homewards, and George could do no less than attend her.

“I thought Bessy was with you,” he remarked, as they walked along.

“She is remaining an hour or two longer with Lady Godolphin; but it was time I came home to Thomas. When do you say you must sail, George?”

“The beginning of the year. My salary will commence with the first of January, and I ought to be off that day. I don’t know whether that will give Maria sufficient time for preparation.”

“Sufficient time!” repeated Miss Godolphin. “Will she want to take out a ship’s cargo? I should think she might be ready in a tithe of it. Shall you take the child?”

“Oh yes,” he hastily answered; “I could not go without Meta. And I am sure Maria would not consent to be separated from her. I hope Maria will not object to going on her own score.”

“Nonsense!” returned Janet. “She will have the sense to see that it is a remarkable piece of good fortune, far better than you had any right to expect. Let me recommend you to put by half your salary, George. It is a very handsome one, and you may do it if you will. Take a lesson from the past.”

“Yes,” replied George, with a twitch of conscience. “I wonder if the climate will try Maria?”

“I trust that the change will be good for her in all ways,” said Janet emphatically. “Depend upon it she will be only too thankful to turn her back on Prior’s Ash. She will not get strong as long as she stops in it, or so long as your prospects are uncertain, doing nothing, as you are now. I can’t make out, for my part, how you live.”

“You might easily guess that I have been helped a little, Janet.”

“By one that I would not be helped by if I were starving,” severely rejoined Janet. “You allude, I presume, to Mr. Verrall?”

George did allude to Mr. Verrall; but he avoided a direct answer. “All that I borrow I shall return,” he said, “as soon as it is in my power to do so. It is not much: and it is given and received as a loan only. What do you think of Thomas?” he asked, willing to change the subject.

“I think——” Janet stopped. Her voice died away to a whisper, and finally ceased. They had taken the path home round by the ash-trees. The Dark Plain lay stretched before them in the moonlight. In the brightest night the gorse-bushes gave the place a shadowy, weird-like appearance, but never had the moonlight on the plain been clearer, whiter, brighter than it was now. And the Shadow?

The ominous Shadow of Ashlydyat lay there: the Shadow which had clung to the fortunes of the Godolphins, as tradition said, in past ages; which had certainly followed the present race. But the blackness that had characterized it was absent from it now: the Shadow was undoubtedly there, but had eyes been looking on it less accustomed to its form than were Miss Godolphin’s, they might have failed to make out distinctly its outlines. It was of a light, faint hue; more as the reflection of the Shadow, if it may be so expressed.

“George! do you notice?” she breathed.

“I see it,” he answered.

“But do you notice its peculiarity—its faint appearance? I should say—I should say that it is indeed going from us; that it must be about the last time it will follow the Godolphins. With the wresting from them of Ashlydyat the curse was to die out.”

She sat down on the bench under the ash-trees, and was speaking in low, dreamy tones: but George heard every word, and the topic was not particularly palatable to him. He could only remember that it was he and no other who had caused them to lose Ashlydyat.

“Your brother will not be here long,” murmured Janet. “That warning is for the last chief of the Godolphins.”

“Oh, Janet! I wish you were not so superstitious! Of course we know—it is patent to us all—that Thomas cannot last long: a few days, a few hours even, may close his life. Why should you connect with him that wretched Shadow?”

“I know what I know, and I have seen what I have seen,” was the reply of Janet, spoken slowly; nay, solemnly. “It is no wonder that you wish to ignore it, to affect to disbelieve in it; but you can do neither the one nor the other, George Godolphin.”

George gave no answering argument. It may be that he had felt he had forfeited the right to argue with Janet. She again broke the silence.

“I have watched and watched; but never once, since the day that those horrible misfortunes fell, has that Shadow appeared. I thought it had gone for good; I thought that our ruin, the passing of Ashlydyat into the possession of strangers, was the working out of the curse. But it seems it has come again; for the last time, as I believe. And it is only in accordance with the past, that the type of the curse should come to shadow forth the death of the last Godolphin.”

“You are complimentary to me, Janet,” cried George good-humouredly. “When poor Thomas shall have gone, I shall be here still, the last of the Godolphins.”

“You!” returned Janet, and her tone of scornful contempt, unconscious as she might herself be of it, brought a sting to George’s mind, a flush to his brow. “You might be worthy of the name of Godolphin once, laddie, but that’s over. The last true Godolphin dies out with Thomas.”

“How long are you going to sit here?” asked George, after a time, as she gave no signs of moving.

“You need not wait,” returned Janet. “I am at home now, as may be said. Don’t stay, George: I would rather you did not: your wife must be expecting you.”

Glad enough to be released, George went his way, and Janet sat on, alone. With that Shadow before her—though no longer a dark one—it was impossible but that her reflections should turn to the unhappy past: and she lost herself in perplexity.

A great deal of this story, The Shadow of Ashlydyat, is a perfectly true one; it is but the recital of a drama in real life. And the superstition that encompasses it? ten thousand inquisitive tongues will ask. Yes, and the superstition. There are things, as I have just said, which can neither be explained nor accounted for: they are marvels, mysteries, and so they must remain. Many a family has its supernatural skeleton, religiously believed in; many a house has its one dread corner which has never been fully unclosed to the light of day. Say what men will to the contrary, there is a tendency in the human mind to tread upon the confines of superstition. We cannot shut our eyes to things that occur within our view, although we may be, and always shall be, utterly unable to explain them; what they are, what they spring from, why they come. If I were to tell you that I believed there are such things as omens, warnings, which come to us—though seldom are they sufficiently marked at the time to be attended to—I should be called a visionary day-dreamer. I am nothing of the sort. I have my share of plain common sense. I pass my time in working, not in dreaming. I never had the gratification of seeing a ghost yet, and I wish I was as sure of the fruition of my dearest hopes, as I am that I never shall see one. I have not been taken into favour by the spirits, have never been promoted to so much as half a message from them—and never expect to be. But some curious incidents have forced themselves on my life’s experience, causing me to echo as a question the assertion of the Prince of Denmark—Are there not more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy?

Janet Godolphin rose with a deep sigh and her weight of care. She kept her head turned to the Shadow until she had passed from its view, and then continued her way to the house, murmuring: “It’s but a small misfortune; the Shadow is scarcely darker than the moonlight itself.”

Thomas was in his arm-chair, bending forward towards the fire, as she entered. His face would have been utterly colourless, save for the bluish tinge which had settled there, a tinge distinguishable even in the red blaze. Janet, keen-sighted as Margery, thought the hue had grown more ominous since she quitted him in the afternoon.

“Have you come back alone?” asked Thomas, turning towards her.

“George accompanied me as far as the ash-trees: I met him. Bessy is staying on for an hour with Lady Godolphin.”

“It’s a fine night,” he observed.

“It is,” replied Janet. “Thomas,” dropping her voice, “the Shadow is abroad.”

“Ah!”

The response was spoken in no tone of dread, or dismay; but calmly, pleasantly, with a smile upon his lips.

“It has changed its tone,” continued Janet, “and may be called grey now instead of black. I thought it had left us for good, Thomas. I suppose it had to come once more.”

“If it cared to keep up its character for consistency,” he said, his voice jesting. “If it has been the advance herald of the death of other Godolphins, why should it not herald in mine?”

“I did not expect to hear you joke about the Shadow,” observed Janet, after a pause of vexation.

“Nay, there’s no harm in it. I have never understood it, you know, Janet; none of us have; so little have we understood, that we have not known whether to believe or disbelieve. A short while, Janet, and things may be made plainer to me.”

“How are you feeling to-night?” somewhat abruptly asked Janet, looking askance at his face.

“Never better of late days. It seems as if ease both of mind and body had come to me. I think,” he added, after a few moments’ reflection, “that what George tells me of a prospect opening for him, has imparted this sense of ease. I have thought of him a great deal, Janet; of his wife and child; of what would become of him and of them. He may live yet to be a comfort to his family; to repair to others some of the injury he has caused. Oh, Janet! I am ready to go.”

Janet turned her eyes from the fire, that the rising tears might not be seen. “The Shadow was very light, Thomas,” she repeated. “Whatever it may herald forth, will not be much of a misfortune.”

“A misfortune!—to be taken to my rest!—to the good God who has so loved and kept me here! No, Janet. A few minutes before you came in, I fell into a doze, and I dreamt that I saw Jesus Christ standing there by the window, waiting for me. He had His hand stretched out to me with a smile. So vivid had been the impression, that when I awoke I thought it was reality, and was hastening towards the window before I recollected myself.”

Janet rang the bell for lights to be brought in. Thomas, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, bent his head upon his hand, and became lost in imagination in the glories that might so soon open to him. Bright forms were flitting around a wondrous throne, golden harps in their hands; and in one of them, her harp idle, her radiant face turned as if watching for one who might be coming, he seemed to recognize Ethel.

George Godolphin meanwhile had gone home, and was sitting with his wife and child. The room was bright with light and fire, and George’s spirits were bright in accordance with it. He had been enlarging upon the prospect offered to him, describing a life in India in vivid colours; had drawn some imaginative pen-and-ink sketches of Miss Meta on a camel’s back; in a gorgeous palanquin; in an open terrace gallery, being fanned by about fifty slaves: the young lady herself looking on at the pictures in a high state of excitement, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. Maria seemed to partake of the general hilarity. Whether she was really better, or the unexpected return of her husband had infused into her artificial strength, unwonted excitement, certain it is that she was not looking very ill that night: her cheeks had borrowed some of Meta’s colour, and her lips were parted with a smile. The child’s chatter never ceased; it was papa this, papa the other, incessantly. Margery felt rather cross, and when she came in to add some dainty to the substantial tea she had prepared for her master, told him she hoped he would not be for carrying Miss Meta out to the wretched foreign places that were only good for convicts. India and Botany Bay ranked precisely alike in Margery’s estimation.

But tea was done with and removed, and the evening went on, and Margery came again to escort Miss Meta to bed. Miss Meta was not in a hurry to be escorted. Her nimble feet were flying everywhere: from papa at the table, to mamma who sat on the sofa near the fire: from mamma to Margery, standing silent and grim, scarcely deigning to look at the pen-and-ink sketches that Meta exhibited to her.

“I don’t see no sense in ’em, for my part,” slightingly spoke Margery, regarding with dubious eyes one somewhat indistinct representation held up to her. “Those things bain’t like Christian animals. An elephant, d’ye call it? Which is its head and which is its tail?”

Meta whisked off to her papa, elephant in hand. “Papa, which is its head, and which is its tail?”

“That’s its tail,” said George. “You’ll know its head from its tail when you come to ride one, Margery,” cried he, throwing his laughing glance at the woman.

“Me ride an elephant! me mount one o’ them animals!” was the indignant response. “I should like to see myself at it! It might be just as well, sir, if you didn’t talk about them to the child: I shall have her starting out of her sleep screaming to-night, fancying that a score of them’s eating her up.”

George laughed. Meta’s busy brain was at work; very busy, very blithesome just then. “Papa, do we have swings in India?”

“Lots of them,” responded George.

“Do they go up to the trees? Are they as good as the one Mrs. Pain made for me at the Folly?”

“Ten times better than that,” said George slightingly. “That was a muff of a swing, compared with what the others will be.”

Meta considered. “You didn’t see it, papa. It went up—up—oh, ever so high.”

“Did it?” said George. “We’ll send the others higher.”

“Who’ll swing me?” continued Meta. “Mrs. Pain? She used to swing me before. Will she go to India with us?”

“Not she,” said George. “What should she go for? Look here. Here’s Meta on an elephant, and Margery on another, in attendance behind.”

He had been mischievously sketching it off: Meta sitting at her ease on the elephant, her dainty little legs astride, boy fashion, was rather a pretty sight: but poor Margery grasping the animal’s head, her face one picture of horror in her fear of falling, and some half-dozen natives propping her up on either side, was only a ludicrous one.

Margery looked daggers, but nothing could exceed Meta’s delight. “Draw mamma upon one, papa; make her elephant alongside mine.”

“Draw mamma upon one?” repeated George. “I think we’ll have mamma in a palanquin; the elephants shall be reserved for you and Margery.”

“Is she coming to bed to-night, or isn’t she?” demanded Margery, in uncommonly sharp tones, speaking for the benefit of the company generally, not to any one in particular.

Meta paid little attention; George appeared to pay less. In taking his knife from his waistcoat-pocket to cut the pencil, preparatory to “drawing mamma and the palanquin,” he happened to bring forth a ring. Those quick little eyes saw it: they saw most things. “That’s Uncle Thomas’s!” cried the child.

In his somewhat hasty attempt to return it to his pocket, George let the ring fall to the ground, and it rolled towards Margery. She picked it up, wonderingly—almost fearfully. She had believed that Mr. Godolphin would not part with his signet-ring during life: the ring which he had offered to the bankruptcy commissioners, and they, with every token of respect, had returned to him.

“Oh, sir! Surely he is not dead?”

“Dead!” echoed George, looking at her in surprise. “I left him better than usual, Margery, when I came away.”

Margery said no more. Meta was not so scrupulous. “Uncle Thomas always has that on his finger: he seals his letters with it. Why have you brought it away, papa?”

“He does not want it to seal letters with any longer, Meta,” George answered, speaking gravely now, and stroking her golden curls. “I shall use it in future for sealing mine.”

“Who’ll wear it?” asked Meta. “You, or Uncle Thomas?”

“I shall—some time. But it is quite time Meta was in bed; and Margery looks as if she thought so. There! just a few of mamma’s grapes, and away to dream of elephants.” Some fine white grapes were heaped on a plate upon the table; they were what George had brought from London for his wife. He broke some off for Meta, and that spoiled young damsel climbed on his knee, while she ate them, chattering incessantly.

“Will there be parrots in India? Red ones?”

“Plenty. Red and green and blue and yellow,” returned George, who was rather magnificent in his promises. “There’ll be monkeys as well—as Margery’s fond of them.”

Margery flung off in a temper. But the words had brought a recollection to Meta. She bustled up on her knees, neglecting her grapes, gazing at her papa in consternation.

“Uncle Reginald was to bring me home some monkeys and some parrots and a Chinese dog that won’t bite. How shall I have them, papa, if I have gone to Cal—what is it?” She spoke better than she did, and could sound the “th” now; but the name of the place was difficult to be remembered.

“Calcutta. We’ll write word to Regy’s ship to come round there and leave them,” replied ready George.

It satisfied the child. She finished her grapes, and then George took her in his arms to Maria to be kissed, and afterwards put her down outside the door to offended Margery, after kissing lovingly her pretty lips and her golden curls.

His manner had changed when he returned. He stood by the fire, near Maria, grave and earnest, and began talking more seriously to her on this new project than he had done in the presence of his child.

“I think I should do wrong were I to refuse it: do not you, Maria? It is an offer that is not often met with.”

“Yes, I think you would do wrong to refuse it. It is far better than anything I had hoped for.”

“And can you be ready to start by New Year’s Day?”

“I—I could be ready, of course,” she answered. “But I—I—don’t know whether——”

She came to a final stop. George looked at her in surprise: in addition to her hesitation, he detected considerable emotion.

She stood up by him and leaned her arm on the mantel-piece. She strove to speak quietly, to choke down the rebellious rising in her throat: her breath went and came, her bosom heaved. “George, I am not sure whether I shall be able to undertake the voyage. I am not sure that I shall live to go out.”

Did his heart beat a shade quicker? He looked at her more in surprise still than in any other feeling. He had not in the least realized this faint suggestion of the future.

“My darling, what do you mean?”

He passed his arm round her waist, and drew her to him. Maria let her head fall upon his shoulder, and the tears began to trickle down her wasted cheeks.

“I cannot get strong, George. I grow weaker instead of stronger; and I begin to think I shall never be well again. I begin to know I shall never be well again!” she added, amending the words. “I have thought it for some time.” “How do you feel?” he asked, breaking the silence that had ensued. “Are you in any pain?”

“I have had a pain in my throat ever since the—ever since the summer: and I have a constant inward pain here”—touching her chest. “Mr. Snow says both arise from the same cause—nervousness! but I don’t know.”

“Maria,” he said, his voice quite trembling with its tenderness, “shall I tell you what it is? The worry of the past summer has had a bad effect upon you, and brought you into this weak state. Mr. Snow is right: it is nervousness: and you must have change of scene ere you can recover. Is he attending you?”

“He calls every other day or so, and he sends me medicine of different kinds; tonics, I fancy. I wish I could get strong! I might—perhaps—get a little better, that is, I might feel a trifle better, if I were not always so entirely alone. I wish,” she more timidly added, “that you could be more with me than you are.”

“You cannot wish it as heartily as I,” returned George. “A little while, my darling, and things will be bright again. I have been earnestly and constantly seeking for something to do in London; I was obliged to be there. Now that I have this place given me, I must be there still, chiefly, until we sail, making my preparations. You can come to me if you like, until we do go,” he added, “if you would rather be there than here. I can change my bachelor lodgings, and get a place large enough for you and Meta.”

She felt that she was not equal to the removal, and she felt that if she really were to leave Europe she must remain this short intervening time near her father and mother. But—even as she thought it—the conviction came upon her, firm and strong, that she never should leave it; should not live to leave it. George’s voice, eager and hopeful, interrupted.

“We shall begin life anew in India, Maria: with the old country we shall leave old sores behind us. As to Margery—I don’t know what’s to be done about her. It would half break her heart to drag her to a new land, and quite break it to carry off Meta from her. Perhaps we had better not attempt to influence her either way, but let the decision rest entirely with her.”

“She will never face the live elephants,” said Maria, her lips smiling at the joke, as she endeavoured to be gay and hopeful as George was. But the effort entirely failed. A vision came over her of George there alone; herself in the cold grave, whither she believed she was surely hastening; Meta—ay—what of Meta?

“Oh, George! if I might but get strong! if I might but live to go with you!” she cried in a wail of agony.

“Hush, hush! Maria, hush! I must not scold you: but indeed it is not right to give way to these low spirits. That of itself will keep you back. Shall I take you to town with me when I return to-morrow, just for a week’s change? I know it would partially bring you round, and we would make shift in my rooms for the time. Margery will take care of Meta here.”

She knew how worse than useless was the thought of attempting it; she saw that George could not be brought to understand her excessive weakness. A faint hope came across her that, now that the uncertainty of his future prospects was removed, she might grow better. That uncertainty had been distressing her sick heart for months.

She subdued her emotion and sat down in the chair quietly, saying that she was not strong enough to go up with him this time: it would be a change in one sense for her, she added, thinking of the new life; and then she began to talk of other things.

“Did you see Reginald before he sailed?”

“Not immediately before it, I think.”

“You are aware that he has gone as a common seaman?”

“Yes. By the way, there’s no knowing what I may be able to do for Regy out there, and for Isaac too, perhaps. Once I am in a good position I shall be able to assist them—and I’ll do it. Regy hates the sea: I’ll get him something more to his taste in Calcutta.”

Maria’s face flushed with hope, and she clasped her nervous hands together. “If you could, George! how thankful I should be! I think of poor Regy and his hard life night and day.”

“Which is not good for you by any means, young lady. I wish you’d get out of that habit of thinking and fretting about others. It has been just poor Thomas’s fault.”

She answered by a faint smile. “Has Thomas given you his ring?” she asked.

“He gave it me this afternoon,” replied George, taking it from his pocket. It was a ring with a bright green stone, on which was engraved the arms of the Godolphins. Sir George had worn it always, and it came to Thomas at his death: now it had come to George.

“You do not wear it, George.”

“Not yet. I cannot bear to put it on my finger while Thomas lives. In point of fact, I have no right to do so—at least to use the signet: it belongs exclusively to the head of the Godolphins.”

“Do you see Mrs. Pain often?” Maria presently said, with apparent indifference. But George little knew the fluttering emotion that had been working within, or the effort it had taken to subdue that emotion ere the question could be put.

“I see her sometimes; not often. She gets me to ride with her in the Park now and then.”

“Does she continue to reside with the Verralls?”

“I suppose so. I have not heard her mention anything about it.”

“George, I have wondered where Mrs. Pain’s money comes from,” Maria resumed in a dreamy tone. “It was said in the old days, you know, that the report of her having thirty thousand pounds was false; that she had nothing.”

“I don’t believe she had a penny,” returned George. “As to her income, I fancy it is drawn from Verrall. Mrs. Pain’s husband was connected in some business way with Verrall, and I suppose she still benefits by it. I know nothing whatever, but I have thought it must be so. Listen!”

George raised his hand as he abruptly spoke, for a distinct sound had broken upon his ear. Springing to the window he threw it open. The death-bell of All Souls’ was booming out over Prior’s Ash.

Before a word was spoken by him or by his wife; before George could still the emotion that was thumping at his heart, Margery came in with a scared face. In her flurry, her sudden grief, she addressed him as she had been accustomed to address him in his boyhood.

“Do you hear it, Master George? That’s the passing-bell! It is for him. There’s nobody else within ten miles they would trouble to have the bell tolled for at nigh ten o’clock at night. The Master of Ashlydyat’s gone.”

She sat down on a chair, regardless of the presence of her master and mistress, and, flinging her apron up to her face, burst into a storm of sobs.

A voice in the passage aroused her, for she recognized it as Bexley’s. George opened the room door, and the old man came in.

“It is all over, sir,” he said, his manner strangely still, his voice unnaturally calm and low, as is sometimes the case where emotion is striven to be suppressed. “Miss Janet bade me come to you with the tidings.”

George’s bearing was suspiciously quiet too. “It is very sudden, Bexley,” he presently rejoined.

Maria had risen and stood with one hand leaning on the table, her eyes strained on Bexley, her white face turned to him. Margery never moved.

“Very sudden, sir: and yet my mistress did not seem unprepared for it. He took his tea with her, and was so cheerful and well over it that I declare I began to hope he had taken a fresh turn. Soon afterwards Miss Bessy came back, and I heard her laughing in the room as she told them some story that had been related to her by Lady Godolphin. Presently my mistress called me in, to give me directions about a little matter she wanted done to-morrow, and while she was speaking to me, Miss Bessy cried out. We turned round and saw her leaning over my master. He had slipped back in his chair powerless, and I hastened to raise and support him. Death was in his face, sir; there was no mistaking it; but he was quite conscious, quite sensible, and smiled at us. ‘I must say farewell to you,’ he said, and Miss Bessy burst into a fit of sobs; but my mistress kneeled down quietly before him, and took his hands in hers, and said, ‘Thomas, is the moment come?’ ‘Yes, it is come,’ he answered, and he tried to look round at Miss Bessy, who stood a little behind his chair. ‘Don’t grieve,’ he said; ‘I am going on first’ but she only sobbed the more. ‘Good-bye, my dear ones,’ he continued; ‘good-bye, Bexley. I shall wait for you all, as I know I am being waited for. Fear?’ he went on, for Miss Bessy sobbed out something that sounded like the word: ‘fear, when I am going to God!—when Jesus——’”

Bexley fairly broke down with a great burst, and the tears were rolling silently over Maria’s cheeks. George wheeled round to the window and stood there with his back to them. Presently Bexley mastered himself and resumed: Margery had come forward then and taken her apron from her eyes.

“It was the last word he spoke—‘Jesus.’ His voice ceased, his hands fell, and the eyelids dropped. There was no struggle; nothing but a long gentle breath; and he died with the smile upon his lips.”

“He had cause to smile,” interjected Margery, the words coming from her brokenly. “If ever a man has gone to his rest in heaven, it is Mr. Godolphin. He had more than his share of sorrow in this world, and God has taken him to a better.”

Every feeling in George’s heart echoed to the words, every pulse beat in wild sorrow for the death of his good brother,—every sting that remorse could bring pricked him with the consciousness of his own share in it. He thrust his burning face beyond the window into the cool night; he raised his eyes to the blue canopy of heaven, serene and fair in the moonlight, almost as if he saw in imagination the redeemed soul winging its flight thither. He pressed his hands upon his throbbing breast to still its emotion; but for the greatest exercise of self-control he would have burst into sobs, as Bexley had done; and it may be that he—he, careless George Godolphin—breathed forth a yearning cry to heaven to be pardoned his share of the past. If Thomas, in his changed condition, could look down upon him, now, with his loving eyes, his ever-forgiving spirit, he would know how bitter and genuine, how full of anguish were these regrets!

George leaned his head on the side of the window to subdue his emotion, to gather the outward calmness that man likes not to have ruffled before the world; he listened to the strokes of the passing-bell ringing out so sharply in the still night air: and every separate stroke was laden with its weight of pain.