-he stayed at home while Mary
went, as she said "to pray for him." He watched her from the open
cottage door, as she ascended the higher part of the "coombe," dressed
in a simple stuff gown of darkest blue, with a prim little "old maid's"
bonnet, as she called it, tied neatly under her rounded white chin--and
carrying in her hand a much worn "Book of Common Prayer" which she held
with a certain delicate reverence not often shown to holy things by the
church-going women of the time. Weircombe Church had a small but musical
chime of bells, presented to it by a former rector--and the silvery
sweetness of the peal just now ringing was intensified by the close
proximity of the mountain stream, which, rendered somewhat turbulent by
recent rains, swept along in a deep swift current, carrying the melody
of the chimes along with it down to the sea and across the waves in
broken pulsation, till they touched with a faint mysterious echo the
masts of home-returning ships, and brought a smile to the faces of
sailors on board who, recognising the sound, said "Weircombe bells,
sure-_ly_!"

Helmsley stood listening, lost in meditation. To anyone who could have
seen him then, a bent frail figure just within the cottage door, with
his white hair, white beard, and general appearance of gentle and
resigned old age, he would have seemed nothing more than a venerable
peasant, quietly satisfied with his simple surroundings, and as far
apart from every association of wealth, as the daisy in the grass is
from the star in the sky. Yet, in actual fact, his brain was busy
weighing millions of money,--the fate of an accumulated mass of wealth
hung on the balance of his decision,--and he was mentally arranging his
plans with all the clearness, precision and practicality which had
distinguished him in his biggest financial schemes,--schemes which had
from time to time amazed and convulsed the speculating world. A certain
wistful sadness touched him as he looked on the quiet country landscape
in the wintry sunlight of this Christmas morn,--some secret instinctive
foreboding told him that it might be the last Christmas he should ever
see. And a sudden wave of regret swept over his soul,--regret that he
had not appreciated the sweet things of life more keenly when he had
been able to enjoy their worth. So many simple joys missed!--so many
gracious and helpful sentiments discarded!--all the best of his years
given over to eager pursuit of gold,--not beca