and down--up and down--Lady Kingsland, in the chamber above, lies ill
unto death.

An hour passes--the clock in the turret and the buhl toy on the stone
mantel toll solemnly one. The embers drop monotonously through the
grate--a dog bays deeply somewhere in the quadrangle below--the wailing
wind of coming morning sighs lamentingly through the tossing
copper-beeches, and the roar of the surf afar off comes ever and anon
like distant thunder. The house is silent as the tomb--so horribly
silent that the cold drops start out on the face of the tortured man.
Who knows? Death has been on the threshold of that upper chamber all
night, waiting for his prey. This awful hush may be the paean that
proclaims that he is master!

A tap at the door. The baronet paused in his stride and turned his
bloodshot eyes that way. His very voice was hollow and unnatural as he
said:

"Come in."

A servant entered--the same who had gone his errand.

"The Reverend Cyrus Green is here, sir. Shall I show him up?"

"Yes--no--I cannot see him. Show him into the drawing-room until he is
needed."

"He will not be needed," said a voice at his elbow, and Doctor Parker
Godroy came briskly forward. "My dear Sir Jasper, allow me to
congratulate you! All is well, thank Heaven, and--it is a son!"