or a fortnight after this terrible accident, Colonel Harewood wrote to
entreat my brother to come to Redclyffe, saying poor Sir Guy had
eagerly caught at the mention of his name. Of course he went at once,
and he told me that he never, in all his experience as a clergyman, saw
any one so completely broken down with grief.'

I found a great many of his letters among my father's papers,' said
Philip; 'and it was a very touching one that he wrote to me on my
father's death. Those Redclyffe people certainly have great force of
character.'

'And was it then he settled his property on my uncle?' said Charles.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Edmonstone. 'My brother did not like his doing so,
but he would not be at rest till it was settled. It was in vain to put
him in mind of his grandchild, for he would not believe it could live;
and, indeed, its life hung on a thread. I remember my brother telling
me how he went to Moorworth to see it--for it could not be brought
home--in hopes of bringing, back a report that might cheer its
grandfather, but how he found it so weak and delicate, that he did not
dare to try to make him take interest in it. It was not till the child
was two or three years old, that Sir Guy ventured to let himself grow
fond of it.'

'Sir Guy was a very striking person,' said Philip; 'I shall not easily
forget my visit to Redclyffe four years ago. It was more like a scene
in a romance than anything real--the fine old red sandstone house
crumbling away in the exposed parts, the arched gateway covered with
ivy; the great quadrangle where the sun never shone, and full of
echoes; the large hall and black wainscoted rooms, which the candles