hter life, only to be met by the sceptic's cynical smile, the
materialist's barren creed.

'My dearest, we know nothing except the immutable laws of material life.
All the rest is a dream--a beautiful dream, if you like--a consolation
to that kind of temperament which can take comfort from dreams; but for
anyone who has read much, and thought much, and kept as far as possible
on a level with the scientific intellect of the age--for such an one,
Mary, these old fables are too idle. I shall die as I have lived, the
victim of an inscrutable destiny, working blindly, evil to some, good to
others. Ah! love, life has begun very fairly for you. May the fates be
kind always to my gentle and loving girl!'

There was more talk between them on this dark mystery of life and death.
Mary brought out her poor little arguments, glorified by the light of
perfect faith; but they were of no avail against opinions which had been
the gradual growth of a long and joyless life. Time had attuned Lady
Maulevrier's mind to the gospel of Schopenhauer and the Pessimists, and
she was contented to see the mystery of life as they had seen it. She
had no fear, but she had some anxiety as to the things that were to
happen after she was gone. She had taken upon herself a heavy burden,
and she had not yet come to the end of the road where her burden might
be laid quietly down, her task accomplished. If she fell by the wayside
under her load the consequences for the survivors might be full of
trouble.

Her anxieties were increased by the fact that her faithful servant and
adviser, James Steadman, was no longer the man he had been. The change
in him was painfully evident--memory failing, energy gone. He came to
his mistress's room every morning, received her orders, answered her
questions; but Lady Maulevrier felt that he went through the old duties
in a mechanical way, and that his dull brain but half understood their
importance.

One evening at dusk, just as Hartfield and Mary were leaving Lady
Maulevrier's room, after dinner, an appalling shriek ran through the
house--a cry almost as terrible as that which Lord Hartfield heard in
the summer midnight just a year ago. But this time the sound came from
the old part of the house.

'Something has happened,' exclaimed Hartfield, rushing to the door of
communication.

It was bolted inside. He knocked vehemently; but there was no answer. He
ran downstairs, followed by Mary, breathless, in an agony of fea