the Colonel, sahib. Ramoo would have given his life for him."

With his hand upon Ramoo's shoulder, Mark left the room; he passed
a group of women huddled together with blanched faces, at a short
distance down the passage, the news that the Squire's door could
not be opened and the sounds made by its being broken in having
called them together. Mark could not speak. He silently shook his
head and passed on. As he reached his room he heard shrieks and
cries behind him, as the men informed them of what had taken place.
On reaching his door, the one opposite opened, and Mrs. Cunningham
in a dressing gown came out.

"What is the matter, Mark, and what are these cries about?"

"A dreadful thing has happened, Mrs. Cunningham; my father has been
murdered in the night. Please tell Millicent."

Then he closed the door behind him, threw himself on his bed, and
burst into a passion of tears. The Squire had been a good father
to him, and had made him his friend and companion--a treatment
rare indeed at a time when few sons would think of sitting down
in their father's presence until told to do so. Since he had left
school, eight years before, they had been very much together. For
the last two or three years Mark had been a good deal out, but in
this his father had encouraged him.

"I like to see you make your own friends, Mark, and go your own
way," he used to say; "it is as bad for a lad to be tied to his
father's coattail as at his mother's apron string. Get fresh ideas
and form your own opinions. It will do for you what a public school