seless. You will serve Dick best by burying your love in your heart, and
saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero
he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was
the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really
his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public
at all."

"That's what I told father," faltered Dora.

"The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don't anger
him. Don't urge him on to blacken Dick's memory, as he is sure to do if
you don't look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He
told me so when I met him at dinner at the Bents'. Your father wishes
it, and, if Dick could speak now, he would wish it, too--that you would
do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a
splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy.
He worships you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor Dick, who was
weak, like his mother. What am I saying--what am I saying? My sense of
right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I'm a very
wretched woman, Dora!" cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair
Dora brought forward. "Take warning by me. Love with your head and not
your heart, Dora. Don't risk everything for a foolish girl's passion,
when a rich man offers you a proud position."

"I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby," said Dora, scornfully, "I shall
never marry anybody. Oh, Dick!--I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton--I
thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as
though Dick were unworthy--you whom he idolized."

"Don't taunt me, Dora!" moaned the wretched mother. "I shall always be
fond of you for Dick's sake. Good-bye--and forgive me." Mrs. Swinton
tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora
stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable.

Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it matter that his feet were
clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if
unable to move. This room was in Dick's home, and shadowed by
remembrances of him.

The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and
drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his
eyes looked wild.

"Oh, you, Miss Dundas," he murmured, as he advanced with an extended,
limp hand. "I thought I heard my wife's voice."

"I have come to offer