'Should time and perseverance on my part be crowned with success, so that the prejudices of Mr. Hunter become subdued, and I succeed in winning Florence, will you not say that you bless our union?'

Mrs. Hunter paused. 'Are we quite alone?' she asked. Austin glanced round to the closed door. 'Quite,' he answered.

'Then, Austin, I will say more. My hearty consent and blessing be upon you both, if you can, indeed, subdue the objection of Mr. Hunter. Not otherwise: you understand that.'

'Without her father's consent, I am sure that Florence would not give me hers. Have you any idea in what that objection lies?'

'I have not. Mr. Hunter is not a man who will submit to be questioned, even by me. But, Austin, I cannot help thinking that this objection to you may fade away--for, that he likes and esteems you greatly, I know.

Should that time come, then tell him that I loved you--that I wished Florence to become your wife--that I prayed G.o.d to bless the union. And then tell Florence.'

'Will you not tell her yourself?'

Mrs. Hunter made a feeble gesture of denial. 'It would seem like an encouragement to dispute the decision of her father. Austin, will you say farewell, and send my husband to me? I am growing faint.' He clasped her attenuated hands in both his; he bent down, and kissed her forehead.

Mrs. Hunter held him to her. 'Cherish and love her always, should she become yours,' was the feeble whisper. 'And come to me, come to me, both of you, in eternity.'

A moment or two in the corridor to compose himself, and Austin met Mr.

Hunter on the stairs, and gave him the message. 'How is Baxendale?' Mr.

Hunter stayed to ask.

'A trifle better. Not yet out of danger.'

'You take care to give him the allowance weekly?'

'Of course I do, sir. It is due to-night, and I am going to take it to him.'

'Will he ever be fit for work again?'--'I hope so.'

Another word or two on the subject of Baxendale, the attack on whom Mr.

Hunter most bitterly resented, and Austin departed. Mr. Hunter entered his wife's chamber. Florence, who was also entering, Mrs. Hunter feebly waved away. 'I would be a moment alone with your father, my child.

James,' Mrs. Hunter said to her husband, as Florence retired--but her voice was now so reduced that he had to bend his ear to catch the sounds--'there has been estrangement between us on one point for many years: and it seems--I know not why--to be haunting my death-bed. Will you not, in this my last hour, tell me its cause?'

'It would not give you peace, Louisa. It concerns myself alone.'

'Whatever the secret may be, it has been wearing your life out. I ought to know it.'

Mr. Hunter bent lower. 'My dear wife, it would not bring you peace, I say. I contracted an obligation in my youth,' he whispered, in answer to the yearning glance thrown up to him, 'and I have had to pay it off--one sum after another, one after another, until it has nearly drained me. It will soon be at an end now.'

'Is it nearly paid?'--'Ay. All but.'

'But why not have told me this? It would have saved me many a troubled hour. Suspense, when fancy is at work, is hard to bear. And you, James: why should simple debt, if it is that, have worked so terrible a fear upon you?'

'I did not know that I could stave it off: looking back, I wonder that I did do it. I could have borne ruin for myself: I could not, for you.'

'Oh, James!' she fondly said, 'should I have been less brave? While you and Florence were spared to me, ruin might have done its worst.' Mr.

Hunter turned his face away: strangely wrung and haggard it looked just then. 'What a mercy that it is over!'

'All but, I said,' he interrupted. And the words seemed to burst from him in an uncontrollable impulse, in spite of himself.

'It is the only thing that has marred our life's peace, James. I shall soon be at rest. Perfect peace! perfect happiness! May all we have loved be there! I can see----'

The words had been spoken disjointedly, in the faintest whisper, and, with the last one died away. She laid her head upon her husband's arm, and seemed as if she would sleep. He did not disturb her: he remained buried in his own thoughts. A short while, and Florence was heard at the door. Dr. Bevary was there.

'You can come in,' called out Mr. Hunter.

They approached the bed. Florence saw a change in her mother's face, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. The physician's practised eye detected what had happened: he made a sign to the nurse who had followed him in, and the woman went forth to carry the news to the household. Mr. Hunter alone was calm.

'Thank G.o.d!' was his strange e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

'Oh, papa! papa! it is death!' sobbed Florence, in her distress. 'Do you not see that it is death?'

'Thank G.o.d also, Florence,' solemnly said Dr. Bevary. 'She is better off.'

Florence sobbed wildly. The words sounded to her ears needlessly cruel--out of place. Mr. Hunter bent his face on that of the dead, with a long, fervent kiss. 'My wronged wife!' he mentally uttered. Dr. Bevary followed him as he left the room.

'James Hunter, it had been a mercy for you had she been taken years ago.'

Mr. Hunter lifted his hands as if beating off the words, and his face turned white. 'Be still! be still! what can _you_ know?'

'I know as much as you,' said Dr. Bevary, in a tone which, low though it was, seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of the unhappy man. 'The knowledge has disturbed my peace by day, and my rest by night. What, then, must it have done by yours?'

James Hunter, his hands held up still to shade his face, and his head down, turned away. 'It was the fault of another,' he wailed, 'and I have borne the punishment.'

'Ay,' said Dr. Bevary, 'or you would have had my reproaches long ago.

Hark! whose voice is that?' It was one known only too well to Mr.

Hunter. He cowered for a moment, as he had hitherto had terrible cause to do: the next, he raised his head, and shook off the fear.

'I can dare him now,' he bravely said, turning to the stairs with a cleared countenance, to meet Gwinn of Ketterford.

He had obtained entrance in this way. The servants were closing up the windows of the house, and one of them had gone outside to tell the gossiping servant of a neighbour that their good lady and ever kind mistress was dead, when the lawyer arrived. He saw what was being done, and drew his own conclusions. Nevertheless, he desisted not from the visit he had come to pay.

'I wish to see Mr. Hunter,' he said, while the door stood open.

'I do not think you can see him now, sir,' was the reply of the servant.

'My master is in great affliction.'

'Your mistress is dead, I suppose.'--'Just dead.'

'Well, I shall not detain Mr. Hunter many minutes,' rejoined Gwinn, pushing his way into the hall. 'I must see him.'

The servant hesitated. But his master's voice was heard. 'You can admit that person, Richard.'

The man opened the door of the front room. It was in darkness; the shutters were closed; so he turned to the door of the other, and showed the guest in. The soft perfume from the odoriferous plants in the conservatory was wafted to the senses of Gwinn of Ketterford as he entered. 'Why do you seek me here?' demanded Mr. Hunter when he appeared. 'Is it a fitting time and place?'

'A court of law might perhaps be more fit,' insolently returned the lawyer. 'Why did you not remit the money, according to promise, and so obviate the necessity of my coming?'

'Because I shall remit no more money. Not another farthing, or the value of one, shall you ever obtain of me. If I have submitted to your ruinous and swindling demands, you know why I have done it----'

'Stop!' interrupted Mr. Gwinn. 'You have had your money's worth--silence.'