lane between high walls. I passed through stately gates, which stood
wide open, into the garden ground that surrounded the old Abbots'
House. At the end of a short carriage-drive the dark and gloomy building
cleared itself from leafless skeleton trees,--the moon resting keen and
cold on its abrupt gables and lofty chimney-stacks. An old woman-servant
received me at the door, and, without saying a word, led me through a
long low hall, and up dreary oak stairs, to a broad landing, at which
she paused for a moment, listening. Round and about hall, staircase, and
landing were ranged the dead specimens of the savage world which it had
been the pride of the naturalist's life to collect. Close where I stood
yawned the open jaws of the fell anaconda, its lower coils hidden, as
they rested on the floor below, by the winding of the massive stairs.
Against the dull wainscot walls were pendent cases stored with grotesque
unfamiliar mummies, seen imperfectly by the moon that shot through the
window-panes, and the candle in the old woman's hand. And as now she
turned towards me, nodding her signal to follow, and went on up the
shadowy passage, rows of gigantic birds--ibis and vulture, and huge sea
glaucus--glared at me in the false light of their hungry eyes.

So I entered the sick-room, and the first glance told me that my art was
powerless there.

The children of the stricken widower were grouped round his bed, the
eldest apparently about fifteen, the youngest four; one little girl--the
only female child--was clinging to her father's neck, her face pressed
to his bosom, and in that room her sobs alone were loud.

As I passed the threshold, Dr. Lloyd lifted his face, which had been
bent over the weeping child, and gazed on me with an aspect of strange
glee, which I failed to interpret. Then as I stole towards him softly
and slowly, he pressed his lips on the long fair tresses that streamed
wild over his breast, motioned to a nurse who stood beside his pillow to
take the child away, and in a voice clearer than I could have expected
in one on whose brow lay the unmistakable hand of death, he bade
the nurse and the children quit the room. All went sorrowfully, but
silently, save the little girl, who, borne off in the nurse's arms,
continued to sob as if her heart were breaking.

I was not prepared for a scene so affecting; it moved me to the quick.
My eyes wistfully followed the children so soon to be orphans, as one
after one wen