s each other
perpetually in the texture of human life.

To pass from the Characters to the Story, it will be seen that the
narrative related in these pages has been constructed on a plan which
differs from the plan followed in my last novel, and in some other of
my works published at an earlier date. The only Secret contained in this
book is revealed midway in the first volume. From that point, all the
main events of the story are purposely foreshadowed before they take
place--my present design being to rouse the reader's interest in
following the train of circumstances by which these foreseen events are
brought about. In trying this new ground, I am not turning my back in
doubt on the ground which I have passed over already. My one object in
following a new course is to enlarge the range of my studies in the art
of writing fiction, and to vary the form in which I make my appeal to
the reader, as attractively as I can.

There is no need for me to add more to these few prefatory words than is
here written. What I might otherwise have wished to say in this place, I
have endeavored to make the book itself say for me.

TO

FRANCIS CARR BEARD

(FELLOW OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF SURGEONS OF ENGLAND),

IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE TIME WHEN

THE CLOSING SCENES OF THIS STORY WERE WRITTEN.

NO NAME.

THE FIRST SCENE.

COMBE-RAVEN, SOMERSETSHIRE.

CHAPTER I.

THE hands on the hall-clock pointed to half-past six in the morning. The
house was a country residence in West Somersetshire, called Combe-Raven.
The day was the fourth of March, and the year was eighteen hundred and
forty-six.

No sounds but the steady ticking of the clock, and the lumpish snoring
of a large dog stretched on a mat outside the dining-room door,
disturbed the mysterious morning stillness of hall and staircase. Who
were the sleepers hidden in the upper regions? Let the house reveal
its own secrets; and, one by one, as they descend the stairs from their
beds, let the sleepers disclose themselves.

As the clock pointed to a quarter to seven, the dog woke and shook
himself. After waiting in vain for the footman, who was accustomed to
let him out, the animal wandered restlessly from one closed door
to another on the ground-floor; and, returning to his mat in great
perplexity, appealed to the sleeping family with a long and melancholy
howl.

Before the last notes of the dog's remonstrance had died away, the
oaken stairs in the higher