It was worse in the drawing-room, with the lights and the music, and
his stately wife at the piano, and Lady Helen at his side, prattling
with little Mildred over a pile of engravings. All the time, in a
half-distracted sort of way, his thoughts were wandering to the
sexton's cottage and the woman dying therein--the woman he had thought
dead years ago--dying there in desolation and misery--and here the
hours seemed strung on roses.

It was all over at last. The guests were gone, the baby baronet slept
in his crib, and Lady Kingsland had gone to her chamber. But Sir
Jasper lingered still--wandering up and down the long drawing-room like
a restless ghost.

A clock on the mantel chimed twelve. Ere its last chime had sounded a
sleepy valet stood in the doorway.

"A messenger for you, Sir Jasper--sent by the Reverend Mr. Green.
Here--come in."

Thus invoked, Mr. Dawson entered, pulling his forelock.

"Parson, he sent me, zur. She be a-doying, she be."

He knew instantly who the man meant.

"And she wishes to see me?"

"She calls for you all the time, zur. She be a-doying uncommon hard.
Parson bid me come and tell 'ee."