and swiftly up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to the last; then she stopped and listened. It was a deathly silence. She opened the door—the Squire was sitting alone at the side of the bed, holding the dead man’s hand, and looking straight before him at vacancy. He did not stir or move, even so much as an eyelid, at Molly’s entrance. The truth had entered his soul before this, and he knew that no doctor, be he ever so cunning, could, with all his striving, put the breath into that body again. Molly came up to him with the softest steps, the most hushed breath that ever she could. She did not speak, for she did not know what to say. She felt that he had no more hope from earthly skill; so what was the use of speaking of her father and the delay in his coming? After a moment’s pause, standing by the old man’s side, she slipped down to the floor, and sat at his feet. Possibly, her presence might have some balm in it; but uttering of words was as a vain thing. He must have been aware of her being there, but he took no apparent notice. There they sate, silent and still, he in his chair, she on the floor; the dead man, beneath the sheet, for a third. She fancied that she must have disturbed the father in his contemplation of the quiet face, now more than half, but not fully, covered up out of sight. Time had never seemed so without measure, silence had never seemed so noiseless as it did to Molly, sitting there. In the acuteness of her senses she heard a step mounting a distant staircase, coming slowly, coming nearer. She knew it not to be her father’s, and that was all she cared about. Nearer and nearer—close to the outside of the door—a pause, and a soft hesitating tap. The great, gaunt figure sitting by her side quivered at the sound. Molly rose and went to the door: it was Robinson, the old butler, holding in his hand a covered basin of soup.

“God bless you, Miss,” said he; “make him touch a drop o’ this; he’s gone since breakfast without food, and it’s past one in the morning now.”

He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her to her place at the Squire’s side. She did not speak; for she did not well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child, and she the nurse; and, instinctively, he took down the first spoonful of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he pointed to the bed—

“He will never eat again—never.”

Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible manner that Molly trembled, lest he also should die—should break his heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, looking through the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stood by them both, before either of them was aware.

“Go downstairs, Molly,” said he gravely; but he stroked her head tenderly as she rose. “Go into the dining- room.” Now she felt the reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear, as she went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should meet Osborne, and hear it all explained: how he came to die—what he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the dining- room—the last few steps with a rush of terror— senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about, decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away her over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But vividness of life came back, when she found Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.

“Drink, Miss. It’s good old Maderia. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, ‘My daughter may have to stay here, Mr. Robinson, and she’s young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she’ll break down utterly.’ Those was his very words.”