before any more could be said, there entered a middle-aged gentleman,
short and slight, with a fresh, weather-beaten, good-natured face, gray
whiskers, quick eyes, and a hasty, undecided air in look and movement.
He greeted Philip heartily, and the letter was given to him.

'Ha! Eh? Let us look. Not old Sir Guy's hand. Eh? What can be the
matter? What? Dead! This is a sudden thing.'

'Dead! Who? Sir Guy Morville?'

'Yes, quite suddenly--poor old man.' Then stepping to the door, he
opened it, and called, 'Mamma; just step here a minute, will you,
mamma?'

The summons was obeyed by a tall, handsome lady, and behind her crept,
with doubtful steps, as if she knew not how far to venture, a little
girl of eleven, her turned-up nose and shrewd face full of curiosity.
She darted up to Amabel; who, though she shook her head, and held up
her finger, smiled, and took the little girl's hand, listening
meanwhile to the announcement, 'Do you hear this, mamma? Here's a
shocking thing! Sir Guy Morville dead, quite suddenly.'

'Indeed! Well, poor man, I suppose no one ever repented or suffered
more than he. Who writes?'

'His grandson--poor boy! I can hardly make out his letter.' Holding
it half a yard from his eyes, so that all could see a few lines of
hasty, irregular writing, in a forcible hand, bearing marks of having
been penned under great distress and agitation, he read aloud:-