ptions. It is painful
to see the forlorn attempts which are made to raise the condition of this
noble race of men, to read the sad nonsense that is perpetrated for their
benefit. If you wish really to benefit them, it must be by raising their
characters as men; and to do this, you must address them as such,
irrespectively of the technicalities of their calling.

THE KINLOCH ESTATE, AND HOW IT WAS SETTLED.

CHAPTER I.

"Mildred, my daughter, I am faint. Run and get me a glass of cordial from
the buffet."

The girl looked at her father as he sat in his bamboo chair on the piazza,
his pipe just let fall on the floor, and his face covered with a deadly
pallor. She ran for the cordial, and poured it out with a trembling hand.

"Shan't I go for the doctor, father?" she asked.

"No, my dear, the spasm will pass off presently." But his face grew more
ashy pale, and his jaw drooped.

"Dear father," said the frightened girl, "what shall I do for you? Oh,
dear, if mother were only at home, or Hugh, to run for the doctor!"

"Mildred, my daughter," he gasped with difficulty, "the blacksmith,--send
for Ralph Hardwick,--quick! In the ebony cabinet, middle drawer, you will
find----Oh! oh!--God bless you, my daughter!--God bless"----

The angels, only, heard the conclusion of the sentence; for the speaker,
Walter Kinloch, was dead, summoned to the invisible world without a
warning and with hardly a struggle.

But Mildred thought he had fainted, and, raising the window, called loudly
for Lucy Ransom, the only female domestic then in the house.

Lucy, frightened out of her wits at the sudden call, came rushing to the
piazza, flat-iron in hand, and stood riveted to the spot where she first
saw the features on which the awful shadow of death had settled.

"Rub his hands, Lucy!" said Mildred. "Run for some water! Get me the
smelling-salts!"

Lucy attempted to obey all three orders at once, and therefore did
nothing.

Mildred held the unresisting hand. "It is warm," she said. "But the
pulse,--I can't find it."

"Deary, no," said Lucy, "you won't find it."

"Why, you don't mean"----

"Yes, Mildred, he's dead!" And she let fall her flat-iron, and covered her
face with her apron.

But Mildred kept chafing her father's temples and hands,--calling
piteously, in hopes to get an answer from the motionless lips. Then she
sank down at his feet, and clasped his knees in an agony of grief.

A carriage stopped at the door,