"Who?" said Benford. "There's no one
here."

"There is. There is some one here who
has never left my side for fifty years. Nothing
will soothe him, nothing will drive him away.
At feasts he sits on my right hand; alone, he
sits opposite and stares into my face. Now
he smiles —how like you are!"

"Your lordship is very ill. Have you sent
for Dr. Jones ? "

"No—don't talk of doctors. I tell you
they can do no good. I've come to you
tonight. I couldn't bear the room I sat in—
there were voices in it, and people all round
me. He was there and spoke to me of
Aladdin's palace and his salary as physician.
Haven't I paid his fees to his relations? But
that's not sufficient. Well, more—I will pay
more. He shakes his head and perhaps it
is enough—— "

"I do not know what your lordship
alludes to, but I beg you to be composed."

"Listen! " said old Lord Warleigh. " It
was not HIS body—it was a stranger; and
the thought came into my head to call the
sufferer him. It lulled suspicion. I saw his
sister, his mother, his cousin. They all seemed
to have found me out. When I touched their
hands, they drew them away. I was a pariah
—a leper. No one looked kindly on me.
When I spoke of our engagement, she turned
away her head. When I said that when I
had three-thousand a-year I would claim her
promise, she said to me, " Arthur, if you had
millions in your purse, I would not wed you
now. I saw Ellen. I told her of his fate.
She was silent and looked into my eyes. I
knew she saw my soul as it lay trembling,
struggling, trying to hide itself under the
shadow of that great fact. She pined and
pined, and her father's heart broke; and I
was rich—I was Sir Arthur Hayning—I
was Lord Warleigh, and what am I now?"

"You are Lord Warleigh, my lord. I
beseech you to be calm."

"But you won't ask me to go back to the
Broornbank—it was there I built the castle.
The library is above the very spot where the
plant grew with the metal in its roots. I won't
go there, for to-night —to-night is the
anniversary of the time. The lanthorn shone
upon the heath; the pick-axe was plying in
the hole; there was a heap of earth thrown
out, and six, eight, ten feet down, the busy
labourer was at work; the spade was on the
heaped up soil —I saw it flash in the light of
the lanthorn as it flew into the air; its edge
went down—I saw it fall. There was silence
then and for ever in the pit. I filled it up
with my feet —with my hands. I levelled it
on the top. I beat it down. I built great
halls above it; but it won't stay quiet.
Sounds come from it up into my library,
night and day; and at ten o'clock I hear a
step, I see a face, its eyes on mine; and
tonight, the worst of all the year. I cannot go
home!"

"Your lordship is most welcome to remain.
I will order a bed."

"No, not a bed. I shall never lie in a bed
again. See, he rises! Give me your hand;
and look!"

Lord Warleigh held Benford's hand, and
looked to his right side. The fire was dull—
the candles had burned nearly down.
Benford was not a superstitious nor a timid man,
but there was something in Lord Warleigh's
manner that alarmed him. He looked where
he pointed; and, straining his eyes in the
direction of his finger, he saw, or fancied he
saw, a pale white face, growing palpable in
the darkness, and fixing its calm, cold eyes
upon his companion. For a moment, the
empty air had gathered itself into form, and
he could have persuaded himself that Lord
Warleigh's description of what he perceived
was true. But the hand fell away, the head
drooped down upon his breast, and his
lordship was asleep. An hour passed away. A
clock in the passage sounded two; and
Benford touched Lord Warleigh on the shoulder.

"Your lordship," he said, " you must find
it cold here. Your bed will soon be ready."

But Lord Warleigh made no reply.
Benford looked in his face; he spoke to him
gently, loudly, but still no answering sign.
No; not to the loudest trumpet-call that
earthly breath can utter will that ear ever be
open. Lord Warleigh had passed away,
with all his wealth and all his miseries; and
nothing remained but a poor old figure
propped up in an arm-chair, with the fitful
flames of the expiring fire throwing their
lights and shadows on his stiff and motionless
face.

Benford was greatly shocked, but a little
honoured, too. It isn't every parsonage
parlour where a lord with fifty thousand a-year
condescends to die. He preached his
lordship's funeral sermon to a vast congregation.
He told of his charities—of his successful
life; touched lightly on the slight aberrations
of a mind enfeebled by years and honourable
exertion; and trusted he had found peace, as
he had died in the house, almost in the arms,
of a clergyman. His lordship's estates were
sold; the sum realised was to be applied to
the foundation of schools and hospitals, but
not a schoolroom or a ward was ever built.
The will was contested. Heirs-at-law sprung
up in all ranks of life; lawyers flourished;
and finally Chancery swallowed up all.
When the estate of Combe Warleigh changed
hands, the castle was converted into a mill;
the library was taken down, and a shaft sank
where it had stood. When the workmen
had descended about eight feet from the sur-
face, they came to a skeleton, a lanthorn, and
a spade. The curious thing was that the
spade was deeply imbedded in the skull. Mr.
Fungus the antiquary read a paper at the
Archæological Society, proving with
certainty the body had been sacrificed by the
Druids ; and a controversy arose between