aking no
reference whatever to his wife's death, but saying that he should not
return for Christmas, and instructing me to draw on his bankers for any
moneys that I might require for household purposes at Worth.

I need not tell you the effect that such conduct produced on Mrs.
Temple and myself; you can easily imagine what would have been your own
feelings in such a case. Nor will I relate any other circumstances which
occurred at this period, as they would have no direct bearing upon my
narrative. Though I still wrote to my brother at frequent intervals, as
not wishing to neglect a duty, no word from him ever came in reply.

About the end of March, indeed, Parnham returned to Worth Maltravers,
saying that his master had paid him a half-year's wages in advance,
and then dispensed with his services. He had always been an excellent
servant, and attached to the family, and I was glad to be able to offer
him a suitable position with us at Worth until his master should return.
He brought disquieting reports of John's health, saying that he was
growing visibly weaker. Though I was sorely tempted to ask him many
questions as to his master's habits and way of life, my pride forbade me
to do so. But I heard incidentally from my maid that Parnham had told
her Sir John was spending money freely in alterations at the Villa de
Angelis, and had engaged Italians to attend him, with which his English
valet was naturally much dissatisfied.

So the spring passed and the summer was well advanced.

On the last morning of July I found waiting for me on the
breakfast-table an envelope addressed in my brother's hand. I opened
it hastily. It only contained a few words, which I have before me as I
write now. The ink is a little faded and yellow, but the impression it
made is yet vivid as on that summer morning.

"MY DEAREST SOPHY," it began,--"Come to me here at once, if possible,
or it may be too late. I want to see you. They say that I am ill, and
too weak to travel to England.

"Your loving brother,

"JOHN."

There was a great change in the style, from the cold and conventional
notes that he had hitherto sent at such long intervals; from the stiff
"Dear Sophia" and "Sincerely yours" to which, I grieve to say, I had
grown accustomed. Even the writing itself was altered. It was more the
bold boyish hand he wrote when first he went to Oxford, than the smaller
cramped and classic character of his later years. Though it