more effectually to the heart of the living than William Brandon would
ever have cared to own. He had been more than an hour in the room, and
the evening had already begun to cast deep shadows through the small
panes of the half-closed window, when Brandon was startled by a slight
noise. He looked up, and beheld Lucy opposite to him. She did not see
him; but throwing herself upon the bed, she took the cold hand of the
deceased, and after a long silence burst into a passion of tears.

"My father!" she sobbed,--"my kind, good father! who will love me now?"

"I!" said Brandon, deeply affected; and passing round the bed, he took
his niece in his arms: "I will be your father, Lucy, and you--the last of
our race--shall be to me as a daughter!"




CHAPTER XXV.

Falsehood in him was not the useless lie
Of boasting pride or laughing vanity:
It was the gainful, the persuading art, etc.

CRABBE.


On with the horses--off to Canterbury,
Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash thro' puddle;
Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .