"'There's no chance of _that_, though,' said I, negligently.

"'Who told you so, Paul?' said he, with a cunning cast of his eye.' That old drunken doctor said he 'd not insure him for twenty-four hours.

A rum old beast he is! Do you know what he said to me awhile ago?

"Captain," said he, "do you know anything about chemistry?" "Nothing whatever," said I. "Well," said he, with a hiccup,--for he was far gone in liquor,--"albumen is the antidote to the muriate; and if you want to give him a longer line, let him have an egg to eat".'"

"Good Heavens! Do you mean that he suspected--"

"He was dead drunk two minutes afterwards, and said that Hawke was dying of typhus, and that he'd certify under his hand. 'But no matter about _him_,' said he, impatiently. 'If Hawke goes off to-night, it will be a good thing for all of us. Here's this imp of a child!' muttered he, below his breath; 'let us be careful.' And so we parted company, each taking his own road.

"I walked about the grounds alone all day,--I need not tell you with what a heavy heart and a loaded conscience, and only came back to dinner. We were just sitting down to table, when the door opened, and, like a corpse out of his grave, Hawke stole slowly in, and sat down amongst us. He never spoke a word, nor looked at any one. I swear to you, so terrible was the apparition, so ghastly, and so death-like, that I almost doubted if he were still living.

"'Well done, old boy! there 's nothing will do you such good as a little cheering up,' cried Towers.

"'_She_'s asleep,' said he, in a low, feeble voice, 'and so I stole down to eat my last dinner with you.'

"'Not the last for many a year to come,' said Wake, filling his glass.

'The doctor says you are made of iron.'

"'A man of mettle, I suppose,' said he, with a feeble attempt to laugh.

"'There! isn't he quite himself again?' cried Wake. 'By George! he 'll see us all down yet!'

"'Down where?' said Hawke, solemnly. And the tone and the words struck a chill over us.

"We did not rally for some time, and when we did, it was with an effort forced and unnatural. Hawke took something on his plate, but ate none of it, turning the meat over with his fork in a listless way. His wine, too, he laid down when half-way to his lips, and then spat it out over the carpet, saying to himself something inaudible.

"'What's the matter, Godfrey? Don't you like that capital sherry?' said Towers.

"'No,' said he, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

"'We have all pronounced it admirable,' went on the other.

"'It burns,--everything burns,' said the sick man.

"I filled him a glass of iced water and handed it to him, and Towers gave me a look so full of hate and vengeance that my hand nearly let the tumbler drop.

"'Don't drink cold water, man!' cried Towers, catching his arm; 'that is the worst thing in the world for you.'

"'It won't poison me, will it?' said Hawke. And he fixed his leaden, glazy gaze on Towers.

"'What the devil do you mean?' cried he, savagely. 'This is an ugly jest, sir.'

"The sick man, evidently more startled by the violence of the manner than by the words themselves, looked from one to the other of us all round the table.

"'Forgive me, old fellow,' burst in Towers, with an attempt to laugh; 'but the whole of this day, I can't say why or how, but everything irritates and chafes me. I really believe that we all eat and drink too well here. We live like fighting-cocks, and, of course, are always ready for conflict.'

"We all did our best to forget the unpleasant interruption of a few minutes back, and talked away with a sort of over-eagerness. But Hawke never spoke; there he sat, turning his glazed, filmy look from one to the other, as though in vain trying to catch up something of what went forward. He looked so ill--so fearfully ill, all the while, that it seemed a shame to sit carousing there around him, and so I whispered to Collins; but Towers overheard me, and said,

"'All wrong. _You_ don't know what tough material he is made of. This is the very thing to rally him,--eh, Godfrey?' cried he, louder. 'I 'm telling these fellows that you 'll be all the better for coming down amongst us, and that when I've made you a brew of that milk-punch you are so fond of--'

"'It won't burn my throat, will it?' whined out the sick man.

"'Burn your throat! not a bit of it; but warm your blood up, give energy to your heart, and brace your nerves, so that before the bowl is finished you 'll sing us "Tom Hall;" or, better still, "That rainy day I met her,"--

"That rainy day I met her, When she tripped along the street, And, with petticoat half lifted, Showed a dainty pair of feet."

"'How does it go?' said he, trying to catch the tune.

"A ghastly grin--an expression more horrible than I ever saw on a human face before--was Hawke's recognition of this appeal to him, and, beating his fingers feebly on the table, he seemed trying to recall the air.

"'I can't stand this any longer,' whispered Wake to me; 'the man is dying!'

"'Confound you for a fool!' said Towers, angrily. 'You 'll see what a change an hour will make in him. I 've got the receipt for that milk-punch up in my room. I 'll go and fetch it' And with this he arose, and hastily left the room.

"'Where's Tom?' said the sick man, with a look of painful eagerness.

'Where is he?'

"'He's gone for the receipt of the milk-punch; he's going to make a brew for you!' said I.

"'But I won't take it I 'll taste nothing more,' said he, with a marked emphasis. 'I 'll take nothing but what Loo gives me,' muttered he, below his breath. And we all exchanged significant looks with each other.

"'This will never do,' murmured Wake, in a low voice. 'Say something--tell a story--but let us keep moving.'

"And Collins began some narrative of his early experiences on the Turf.

The story, like all such, was the old burden of knave and dupe,--the man who trusted and the man who cheated. None of us paid much attention to the details, but drank away at our wine, and sent the decanters briskly round, when suddenly, at the mention of a horse being found dead in his stall on the morning he was to have run, Hawke broke in with 'Nobbled!

Just like me!'

"Though the words were uttered in a sort of revery, and with a bent-down head, we all were struck dumb, and gazed ruefully at each other.

'Where's Towers all this time?' said Collins to me, in a whisper. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was forty-four minutes since he left the room. I almost started up from my seat with terror, as I thought what this long absence might portend. Had he actually gone off, leaving us all to the perils that were surrounding us? Was it that he had gone to betray us to the law? I could not speak from fear when the door opened, and he came in and sat down in his place. Though endeavoring to seem easy and unconcerned, I could mark that he wore an air of triumph and success that he could not subdue.

"'Here comes the brew,' said he, as the servant brought in a large smoking bowl of fragrant mixture.

"'I 'll not touch it!' said Hawke, with a resolute tone that startled us.

"'What! after giving me more than half an hour's trouble in preparing it,' said Towers. 'Come, old fellow, that is not gracious.'

"'Drink it yourselves!' said Hawke, sulkily.

"'So we will, after we have finished this Burgundy,' said Towers. 'But, meanwhile, what will _you_ have? It's poor fun to sit herewith an empty glass.' And he filled him out a goblet of the milk-punch and placed it before him. 'Here's to the yellow jacket with black sleeves,' said he, lifting his glass; 'and may we see him the first "round the corner."'

"'First "round the corner!"' chorused the rest of us. And Hawke, catching up the spirit of the toast, seized his glass and drank it off.

"'Iknew he 'd drink his own colors if he had one leg in the grave!'

said Towers.

"The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten at the moment It was the hour I was to meet her in the shrubbery; and so, pretending to go in search of my cigar-case, I slipped away and left them. As I was passing behind Hawke's chair, he made a gesture to me to come near him. I bent down my head to him, and he said, 'It won't do this time; she 'll not meet you, Paul.' These were the last words I ever heard him speak."

When Paten had got thus far, he walked away from his friend, and, leaning his arm on the bulwark, seemed overwhelmed with the dreary retrospect He remained thus for a considerable time, and only rallied as Stocmar, drawing his arm within his, said, "Come, come, this is no fresh sorrow now. Let me hear the remainder."