. . My governor could take her away
to-morrow, according to the law of the land, couldn't he now?" These
words, and more such as these, had nearly killed him at the time, and
now, as they recurred to him, he burst out into childish tears. Poor
man! the days of his manhood had gone, and nothing but the tears of
a second bitter childhood remained to him. The hot iron had entered
into his soul, and shrivelled up the very muscles of his mind's
strength.

Herbert, without much thought of what he was doing, knelt down by
the bedside and put his hand upon that of his father which lay out
upon the sheet. There he knelt for one or two minutes, watching and
listening to his father's sobs. "You will be better now, father," he
said, "for the great weight of this terrible secret will be off your
mind." But Sir Thomas did not answer him. With him there could never
be any better. All things belonging to him had gone to ruin. All
those around him whom he had loved--and he had loved those around him
very dearly--were brought to poverty, and sorrow, and disgrace. The
power of feeling this was left to him, but the power of enduring this
with manhood was gone. The blow had come upon him too late in life.

And Herbert himself, as he knelt there, could hardly forbear from
tears. Now, at such a moment as this, he could think of no one but
his father, the author of his being, who lay there so grievously
afflicted by sorrows which were in nowise selfish. "Father," he said
at last, "will you pray with me?" And then when the poor sufferer
had turned his face towards him, he poured forth his prayer to his
Saviour that they all in that family might be enabled to bear the
heavy sorrows which God in his mercy and wisdom had now thought fit
to lay upon them. I will not make his words profane by repeating them
here, but one may say confidently that they were not uttered in vain.

"And now, dearest father, good night," he said as he rose from his
knees; and stretching over the bed, he kissed his father's forehead.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BEFORE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE.

It may be imagined that Mr. Mollett's drive back to Cork after his
last visit to Castle Richmond had not been very pleasant; and indeed
it may be said that his present circumstances altogether were as
unpleasant as his worst enemies could desire. I have endeavoured to
excite the sympathy of those who are going with me through this story
for the sufferings of that family of the Fit