to pass his lips. Many a time in after years I recalled his noble
courage, which helped me to bear the lesser sufferings which fell
to my lot. He seemed to know that his end was approaching, and one
day called me to his private room and talked to me with a kindness
that brought a lump into my throat.

Much of what he said is too sacred to be set down here; I can
truthfully say that his assurance of having made ample provision
for me seemed of little moment beside his earnest loving counsel,
which made the deeper impression because he had so rarely spoken in
that strain.

The end came suddenly, and with a shock that stunned me, for all I
was so well prepared for it. A few brief moments of dreadful agony,
and the good man who had been more than a father to me was no more.
Never once during his long illness had his sister Lady Cludde
visited him; neither she nor her husband accompanied his remains to
the grave: and when we had left him in the churchyard of St. Mary
and returned to the house, I was roused for a little from my stupor
by the sight of Sir Richard among those assembled to hear Mr. Vetch
read the will.

A great wave of anger surged within me when I saw him sitting in my
father's chair, his fat hands folded upon his paunch, and his
bleared eyes rolling a quizzing glance round upon the little
company. So enraged was I that I took little heed of Mr. Vetch at
the table, and heard nothing of what he said as he drew from his
pocket a long paper sealed and tied with tape. No doubt I watched
him untie the knots and break the seal, and spread the document on
the table before him; no doubt I heard his cry of amazement, and