came. About two o'clock my father left me,
and going up-stairs in the dark, passed into
the chamber of the dead. Presently a door
opened, and my mother joined him. And so
those two passed their vigil in tears and
prayer till break of day. Then my father
came down to me.

"Neville will not come now," he said.
"Your mother is asking for him. Go and
account to her for his absence."

So I went to my mother, and told her a
plausible lie to account for Neville's absence,
shrinking before her clear eyes while I did
so. But she did not doubt me, and was
satisfied. Oh, who could have been so cruel
as to break her heart with the stern truth?

I have no call to linger over the events of
the next few days. Even at this distance of
time, I cannot recall them without pain. The
coroner's inquest, with its verdict of Wilful
Murder against some person or persons
unknown; the police investigations ending in
nothing; and even the last sad scene in the
churchyard, when we bade farewell to our
loved one; all these passed weakly over us,
wounded too deeply at first, as we were, to
feel very much any after-blow. Then came
the painful wrenching back of our thoughts
and attention from the solemn business of
death to the ordinary duties of every-day
life.

Doctor Graile thinking that his daughter's
health was suffering from the shock of
Philip's sudden death, and that change of
scene might prove beneficial to her; sent
her to stay with a relative near London.
She had scarcely been there a month, when
a wealthy tallow-merchant fell in love with
her, and made her an offer of marriage.
Mrs. Graile thought this too advantageous
an opportunity to be refused, and as Olive
knew no will beyond that of her mother,
the tallow-merchant was accepted; and six
months after Philip's death, Olive and he
were married. The little doctor came himself
to tell us of it. He was almost in
tears about it, and seemed truly miserable;
but we knew that he had had no hand in
the matter. My mother took it rather to
heart, and fretted about it a good deal.

"If there is one person more than
another," she said, "who should have
cherished the memory of my noble boy, it
is Olive Graile. But she is not worthy of him!"

On their return from their wedding-tour,
the newly-married couple took Dingwell by
storm in a carriage-and-four. I happened
to be passing through the town when they
dashed into it. Olive's quick eyes caught
me in a moment. Of course, the carriage
must be stopped; and. of course, we must
shake hands; and how was I in health?
and how were papa and mamma, and all
the family? And was it not charming
weather ? And then—

"Good bye!" We shall be happy to see
you, Mr. Caleb, if you will honour us with
a call whenever you come to town."

And so away, kissing her hand; she all
silk, blonde, feathers, and rosy smiles; the
fat man by her side, all frowns and surly
jealousy at such unwarrantable familiarity
on the part of his property.

Month after month sped away, and still no
news of Neville. This long silence began to
prey upon my mother's health. She had lost
one son, for in such light she regarded Philip;
and now another seemed to have deserted
her—deserted her? perhaps, he, also, was
dead,—drowned,—never to be seen more of
loving eyes. And the moisture came into her
own eyes, and dimmed her spctacles when
she thought of such a fate; and then she
had to stop knitting while I wiped the glasses
for her; and waiting for them, she would
fall a-thinking again, and forget her work,
and have to retire to bed, at last, overcome
by the pictures she had conjured up. She
was becoming weak and nervous, and fast
losing the cheerfulness which she had only
lately recovered since Philip's death. So
my father determined to reveal the secret to
her and my sister.

"I was wrong to conceal it at the time,"
he said. "Better that they should suffer
under a knowledge of the truth, than perish
slowly from the effects of a lie. The task of
telling them now is twice as hard as it would
have been at first."

So he told them the dread secret one quiet
Sabbath evening in spring, as we all sat
together in the twilight; not able to see each
other's faces clearly, but yet having light
sufficient to show us that we were all there
together.

"I hold it as Heaven's truth," said my
father, solemnly, as he concluded, "that my
poor boy was not master of his actions when
he committed that terrible deed; that, for
some mysterious purpose, his reason had been
taken from him. Who, then, shall stand forward
and blame him—stricken by an invisible
hand? Let us rather pray for him, in silence."

There had been a great change in my father
ever since the sad night on which Philip was
brought home. That sunny cheerfulness of
manner, that quiet sarcastic humour, which
were habitual to him before, now showed
themselves in rare flashes only, at distant
intervals. His grey hair was turning white,
his lithe erect figure was becoming bowed
at the shoulders; and his favourite game at
bowls had to be given up, because it fatigued
him too much. He took more snuff than
ever, and would sit for hours at a time
with his box in his hand, buried in reverie,
and speaking to no one. Yet the change in
him, at first, was so gradual and imperceptible
that we, living beneath the same
roof, and in daily communion with him,
did not perceive it for some time. Doctor
Graile was the first to point it out. My
father yielded to his importunity, and took