"I will do my best, Sir Jasper," he said, gravely. "The result is in
the hands of the Great Dispenser of life and death. Send for the
clergyman, and wait and hope."

He quitted the library as he spoke. Sir Jasper Kingsland seized the
bell and rang a shrill peal.

"Ride to the village--ride for your life!" he said, imperatively, to
the servant who answered, "and fetch the Reverend Cyrus Green here at
once."

The man bowed and departed, and Sir Jasper Kingsland, Baronet, of
Kingsland Court, was alone--alone in the gloomy grandeur of the vast
library; alone with his thoughts and the wailing midnight storm.

A little toy time-piece of buhl on the stone mantel chimed musically
its story of the hour, and Sir Jasper Kingsland lifted his gloomy eyes
for a moment at the sound. A tall, spare middle-aged man, handsome
once--handsome still, some people said--with iron-gray hair and a
proud, patrician face.

"Twelve," his dry lips whispered to themselves--"midnight, and for
three hours I have endured this maddening agony of suspense! Another
day is given to the world, and before its close all I love best may be
cold and stark in death! Oh, my God! have mercy, and spare her!"

He lifted his clasped hands in passionate appeal. There was a picture
opposite--a gem of Raphael's--the Man of Sorrows fainting under the
weight of the cross, and the fire's shine playing upon it seemed to