was thrown back. The candlestick was lying on the floor, as if it had been dropped. Oh, sir! it was a sight to take the sense out of one! I couldn't speak, and the maid fell down at the feet of her dead mistress. I called to the housekeeper; I wanted her to break it to master, for women can always do such things best; but she had rushed off, and so and so I had to tell the sad news myself. I sent for a doctor; but I knew well that all the doctors in the world could be of no use then. So when he came he made short business of it with my poor mistress; but he stayed with master, and did all he could; but nothing seemed to do him any good, till at last we got him to bed. Poor dear old gentleman! he's dozing now, but he'll have a fearful waking!"

"My good fellow," said Mr. Horton, who had listened to this dreadful narrative with the deepest interest, and who was touched by the earnestness of the narrator's sympathy for his master, "Mr. Kingley has one comfort left, and that is a kind heart that feels for him."

"I hope, sir, he's many that'll do that for him, for all—" he stopped.

"For all what?" asked Mr. Horton.

"It's no use talking about that now. I think you wish to see Miss Jemima, sir?" said the valet, who had been so carried away from the real purpose for which Mr. Horton had been admitted that he had almost forgotten it.

"Yes; I wish to speak to some one connected with the family-and Miss Jemima, I think you said, is Mr. Kingley's niece ?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then where was she during the dreadful scene of last night?"

"Miss Jemima thought that my mistress had gone to bed, and she went to her own room. We had none of us the heart to disturb her, and she did not hear of what had happened till this morning, when the worst was over."

“And how did she bear it ?"

"Bravely, sir; for she only heard, she had not seen anything. She seemed shocked a good deal just at first; but she soon got over it, and is now writing notes, and ordering everything. I'm sure it's a good thing she is here, for, being a relation like, she has more power than the other young lady would have had."

"What other young lady do you mean ?”

"I mean," answered the valet, "the young lady that took herself off. It's a very strange business that, sir—very strange."

"I should like to hear about it."

"Indeed, sir, I don't like to say much; but it does seem strange that she should have gone just yes, just about the time when that must have been done which I think, and we all think, and the doctor thinks too, caused poor mistress's death."

"And what was that?"

"Why, sir, it is thought that that curious table was the place where mistress kept all her secret hoards. We all knew that she kept a might of money somewhere, and it is thought that for some reason or other she went to the table last night-indeed, she must have done, for there it was all open, and no doubt it was the shock she felt on finding these secret hoards gone which was the cause of the breaking of the blood-vessel."

"But who is suspected ?-surely not the young lady-she cannot be suspected!"

"I don't know, indeed, sir," said the valet, with more caution than he had hitherto observed, for there was an earnestness in the manner of making the inquiry which suggested the possibility that the gentleman might be a friend of the young lady. "I will tell Miss Jemima, sir," and once more he advanced towards the door.

Stay-not now. No, this is not a fitting time— another opportunity. Say that " Mr. Horton felt for his

pocket-book, intending to take out his card; then something seemed to have occurred to him which caused him to put it back again, as he said, "No, I will not leave my card, I will call at a more suitable time;" and so he recrossed the silent hall, and the valet gently opening the door, Mr. Horton passed into the garden, and was soon in the avenue again.

CHAPTER XXXI.

IT is the chamber of death! there is a deep, awful, stilly silence—such a silence as pervades no other place on earth. It penetrates the very centre of being, is the atmosphere of a spirit departed, and brings us into communion with another world. This stilly silence is in the chamber of her who lies in her last narrow home. What is now the world to her its petty struggles and its vanities, its hopes, its fears, its disappointments, and the accumulations of avaricewhat are these now to her? There she lies, cold and insensible to her the world is passed away; there she lies in the deep sleep of death!

It is evening, and the chamber is darkening; the last rays of the setting sun have disappeared behind the fir-topped hills. The twilight is gathering fast, and the gloomy chamber is becoming every moment more gloomy and gloomy still. A noiseless footstep advances to the bed; it is Jemima. Impelled by an uncontrollable impulse she comes to see in death her whose life had been as though Death had never walked the world. Yet there she lies! Jemima dared to lift that fearful veil, and there were those features, now set rigid in the grasp of Death! She sank on her knees, and hid her face in the coverings of the bed. She was awed and over

powered, and many latent feelings were roused that were working in her for good.

At length Jemima raised her head; just as she did so a dim funereal light was partially diffused around. She started up, her breath suspended-the beating of her heart obtruded on the stillness. It was no illusion; the light was real, and the man that held it was real also. It was shaded by his hand, and in crouching attitude he advanced, casting round a hurried fearful glance: it was such a glance as one might cast on entering a tomb to see if spirits are abroad. Softly and slowly he approached the bed-others were behind him : one, two, three-men of ominous and more hardened aspect, and then followed a woman. Jemima saw it all; and oh! she knew their solemn mission-she knew it was to do the last sad office that the living can do to the dead. For an instant she stood paralysed; then as she glided past the intruders with noiseless step, and made her sudden exit, they did not think it was anything earthly that they saw.

It is the day of the funeral. Since the shock of Mrs. Kingley's death the Justice had sunk into a stupor, from which it was difficult to rouse him, and when roused he soon relapsed. Once he suddenly started from his chair, and looked round inquiringly. "What has happened?" he asked; and then, as if overpowered by a sudden rush of memory, he sank down again, and covering his face with his hands, he said, "Oh! my poor dear wife!" The tears trickled from between his fingers, and he sobbed like a child. After this he was better for a time, and supported by the one earnest wish that nothing should be omitted in the manner of the funeral that might tend to show every possible respect to the memory of the departed. He asked questions, gave several minute directions, thanked Jemima for having written to the Captain, and was glad that Mark Ellison had been requested to attend.

When the day arrived his countenance had an expression

of stern calmness, painful to look upon, it was so unnatural. And when all was over, and he returned to his home, motioning away his valet, who would have followed him, he went immediately to his own chamber, locked the door, and did not appear till at the usual time before dinner.

Jemima, the Captain, and Mark Ellison, were in the drawing-room when the Justice entered; the suit of deep mourning contrasted strongly with his former many-coloured garments, and his florid complexion was changed to a hue so sallow as to be almost unearthly. He held out his hand to each, and returned the sympathising pressure with which it was received. He took his usual seat, but was restless and impatient, as if in expectation of some painful trial that he wanted to be over.

The dinner was announced, and the Justice started up; -that was what he had dreaded. One quick glance he gave at the vacant chair, then he darted forward alone. When the rest of the party entered the dining-room he was not near his usual seat; he beckoned Jemima to take that, and he took the one which had been Mrs. Kingley's.

The fish had to be removed, for even then Jemima dared not undertake to carve that. The Justice helped his guests with his usual attentive care, and he helped himself also, but the contents of his plate were taken untasted away. All noticed it, but none dared to speak. Yet he went through the ceremony of dinner; he even remembered that Jemima liked pigeon-pie, and said he was glad there was one. He helped himself mechanically to every dish placed before him, but each plate was taken away as the first had been. Even the bottle of port was neglected-after having taken two or three glasses, he pushed it aside, and, rising from the table, he retreated to the justice-room, where he remained for the rest of the evening.