began to think more clearly, while the fierce resentment that Mr. Maitland's unjust suspicion kindled in him died away into pain. "You will break it gently to my father?" he said quietly, after a pause. "Tell him it is a mistake, which a few words will prob

ably set right."

"Your poor father! And Cyril, my poor Cyril; it will be a cruel blow to him!"

"I hope that Lilian-and Mrs. Maitland-I trust they know nothing of this? If they could in any way be prevented from knowing the object of these men's presence," continued Henry, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

It was Eliza, with the inspector and two policemen behind her. "Come in," said Everard; and they entered and formally arrested him.

"And the quieter you go the better, sir," observed the inspector. "The fly is waiting just outside the gate in the road."

"Must I go through the hall?" asked Everard.

"I fear there is no other course," returned Mr. Maitland.

"I will just go and account for my sudden departure to the ladies," said Everard; but the inspector, who had taken certain steel implements from his pocket, while one of the men stood before the door, here informed him that he could not go without his escort and those same glittering ornaments, which he proceeded to adjust to Henry's wrists with the dexterity of long practice.

Like one in a dream, Henry submitted to this ignominy, and saw Mr. Maitland step across the hall and carefully close the drawing-room door, while Eliza fetched his hat and coat; and thus, without any farewell, he walked out of the familiar doors, observing as he went the three troubled pets, the dogs giving vent to occasional reproachful growls, and the cat stalking uneasily about, and uttering a plaintive mew as he passed him; and he felt the unaccustomed touch of steel on his wrists, and half wondered at the strange proximity of the policemen on either side of him. As he stepped out on the graveled drive, he was startled to see a little figure with a white face spring forward and leap to his arms. It was poor little Winnie. He bent down and kissed her.

"Don't be frightened, darling; I shall soon be back. It is only a mistake," he said, touched by this incident, and Mark Antony's sympathetic mew; "tell Lilian it is a mistake."

He could see Lilian through the side of the bay-window of the

drawing-room. Her face was turned from him, and she was tranquilly reading the morning paper, which did not reach sequestered Malbourne till that late hour; nevertheless, he was glad when he was outside the gate, and safely hidden from her sight in the fly.

The village was full of life; the whole population had apparently turned out, open-mouthed and interjectional, to see and discuss the extraordinary proceeding. On a little patch of green Everard saw Lennie, with his jacket off, engaged in fighting with Dickie Stevens, who was apparently getting the worst of it, and was, indeed, finally vanquished after a severe battle. The unlucky Dickie had alluded in plain and unvarnished terms to the end which probably awaited Dr. Everard in consequence of his imputed crime; hence the battle.

The forge was blazing away, but the clink of the hammer was unheard. Straun had left his iron half-shaped on the anvil, and stood outside, bare-armed and grimy, ready to pull off his brownpaper cap when the fly passed; and Granfer leaned against the sill of the opened window, with a countenance expressive of the deepest wisdom, and shook his head ominously. It was not for a man of his knowledge and sagacity to betray surprise; he had evidently foreseen and predicted the event, and knew more about its probable termination than it was prudent to reveal. The usual village parliament was grouped around him, with its hands chiefly in its pockets, and its countenance distraught; but no cap was lifted when the fly passed save Straun's. That and a courtesy from a little girl, and a slow and solemn salute from Tom Hale, who was drawn up at the corner of the wheelwright's yard with a stiffness and precision which suggested the presence of the whole British army, alone greeted the fallen man.

The news of Lee's death did not reach Woodlands till the afternoon, when it was bruited about among the servants, one of whom had caught various strange rumors in Oldport. It floated up to the drawing-room, where it aroused but a tepid interest, save in Marion. Cyril agreed with her that it was very sad and shocking, but expressed little surprise, or, indeed, interest.

He was very restless, and, as the afternoon wore on, left Marion, and wandered aimlessly about, in spite of the fatigue and illness of which he complained. Every sound startled him, and he kept looking expectantly toward the gates, till about four o'clock, when the noise of wheels caught his tense hearing, and he saw his father drive up to the door in the little pony-chaise. He made one

step forward to meet him, and then he went back, and passing behind some laurels, which effectually screened him, went toward the back of the house, and paced up and down on a terrace, which commanded a view of the gray sea, turning his head constantly toward the house, whence he expected a summons.

Some ten minutes passed, and no one sought him. To Cyril it was an eternity. His nervous agitation became unbearable; he was consumed with inward fever. Nothing was heard in the chill winter afternoon, save the heavy boom of the groundswell, which filled all the air with a sullen, steady roar, a roar which confused Cyril's senses with its unceasing thunder, and seemed full of menace to him. The sea, which was about half a mile from the grounds, was coldly gray, and looked, with its calm breadth of unruffled surface, like a sheet of steel. The sky also was steely gray, save in the west, where the departed sun had left some pearl and opal gleam in the cloud-rifts; there was no wind, and the frost still held. Cyril bared his hot forehead to the still winter air, and some broken words of prayer escaped him.

"I would have atoned," he murmured-"I would have atoned at any price, but it was not possible; the wrong is irreparable. Take Thou the will and the broken heart of contrition."

Then some sound smote upon his hearing above the august thunder of the unquiet sea, and he replaced his hat and turned toward the house. But no one came forth, and the sea went on booming heavily as before, only, to Cyril's vexed spirit, it seemed that its hoarse roar rose to a deafening intensity, like the trouble in his breast.

"If it were but over!" he murmured. "I can not endure this suspense;" and he turned half staggering and entered the conservatory, where he was still alone. He felt very ill, and wondered if some deadly sickness were about to fall on him. Body and mind alike seemed failing under the heavy burden he bore. He leant his elbows on the bench and supported his head on his hands, gazing through some bright flowers out on the pitiless sea, and sighed out that he could not bear it, that he wished all were over, and himself at rest from the dreadful stress of life.

A sharp pruning-knife lay near him; his eye rested longingly upon it, and he thought how easily it would still the terrible tumult within. No pain; only a pin-prick, as it were-he knew exactly where to strike; Everard showed him one day when they were dis

cussing the subject—then, a bright, warm jet of blood; a growing languor, deepening into an eternal sleep. He put forth his hand and touched the knife, even felt its edge, and then dropped it with a shudder, and betook himself to prayer. And in his prayer he vowed a passionate vow, were he once delivered from this impending terror, to consecrate his life anew to his great and sacred calling, and to devote body, soul, and spirit with unsparing vigor to that one supreme cause. Calm fell upon him then, and he heard the footsteps of the approaching messenger with a serene face. It was only a servant, with a quiet, everyday countenance.

"The admiral wishes to see you in the library at once, sir," he said.

The admiral! Cyril turned sick. Why not his own father? Was it so bad as that? He walked, however, quietly through the darkening house, and entered the well-known door of the library with a calm face. A servant had just placed lamp on a table before the fire, the ruddy blaze of which danced over the room with fantastic cheerfulness. George and Keppel were standing on the hearth-rug, asking each other what had happened. Their presence steadied Cyril, and conveyed a vague comfort to him.

"I say, Cyril," observed Keppel, in his strong, cheery voice, "there's a row of some kind; all hands piped. What the deuce is your governor up to?"

The door of an inner room, the admiral's special sanctuary, opened, and he came forth, acompanied by Mr. Maitland, who was too troubled to exchange any greeting with the young men.

"Well, my lads," said the admiral, standing with his back to the fireplace, and plunging at once into the subject, "here's the devil to pay. Maitland says that Swaynestone's coachman was murdered last night—"

"Murdered!" cried Cyril, springing from the chair into which he had dropped his weary, aching frame.

"Murdered!" echoed George and Keppel, in varying degrees of

horror.

"My dear Everard," interposed Mr. Maitland, "you are so precipitate. Spare the young men; break it gently."

"Gently! By George, Maitland, murder is murder, and a damned ugly thing, however you break it!" retorted_the honest admiral, who had by no means enjoyed Mr. Maitland's kind endeavors to break it gently. "The women will have to be told; some

body had better break it to them," he added, passing his hand thoughtfully over his fresh-colored, weather-beaten face, while Cyril shuddered with a sick apprehension. "It's no use beating about the bush, lads," he continued, in his impetuous manner; "the long and the short of it is, Henry is arrested for murder."

·Henry!” cried the three. "By Jove!" added Keppel; "My dear father!" added George; while Cyril burst into a hysteric laugh. "Nonsense! the thing is impossible, absurd, ridiculous. What ass arrested him?" he burst out.

66

Stand by, Cyril. You side with your friend, of course. Hear the rest. Tell them, Maitland," expostulated the admiral.

"Do you mean to say, sir, that you think him guilty?" asked Keppel, fiercely.

'My dear Keppel," returned Mr. Maitland. "I would give the remainder of my life not to believe it. I have passed the whole morning with Sir Lionel, and I have heard such evidence as places it beyond a doubt."

Keppel swore steadily and intensely for some seconds, while George quoted Scripture at the same rate. Mr. Maitland thought that of the two he preferred Keppel's observations. Cyril dropped into an arm-chair, and his head sunk upon his breast.

"Steady, lad, steady!" exclaimed the admiral, approaching him. "We must stand to our guns."

"Brandy," murmured Cyril, faintly.

"He has been ill,” said Mr. Maitland, apologizing for his son's weakness; while the admiral plunged into his sanctuary, and issued thence bearing some excellent rum in a little glass, and poured it into Cyril's white lips,

"What the deuce did you mean by swearing before the clergy, Keppel?" he asked, while doing this kind office.

"I am unwell; I have a heavy cold," gasped Cyril, reviving. "It is nonsense about Henry. Where is he?"

"We must bail him at once," said Keppel, when he heard that his brother was actually in custody at that moment; but Mr. Maitland reminded him that this course was impossible, while George groaned and observed parenthetically that Henry needed a fall to bring him to a serious state of mind.

"You may depend upon it, Well, he was the only boy

"Serious!" echoed the admiral. the poor beggar feels serious enough, I never flogged of you all. He was such a little chap when his poor