own child.

Emily had scarcely spoken to him since her arrival. All her thoughts
were for her little favourite. Perhaps even, she saw little in this
fatal carelessness at all out of keeping with his character, as she had
lately thought of it. No, his best chances in this life were all brought
to an end; the whole thing was irretrievable.

"Is that Valentine?" he asked as some one approached.

"Yes, it is past one o'clock. I am going to bed; I suppose you will
too."

"No," he answered in the dull inward voice now become habitual with him.
"Why should I come in? Val, you know where my will is?"

"Yes," said Valentine, distressed to hear him say it.

"If you and Giles have to act, you will find everything in order."

"What is to be done for him?" thought Valentine. "Oh for a woman to talk
to him now!--I cannot." He took to one of the commonplaces of admonition
instead: "Dear John, you must try and submit yourself to the will of
God."

"You have no need to tell me of that," he answered with the same
dimness of speech. "I do not rebel, but I cannot bear it. I mean," he
continued, with the calmest tone of conviction, "that this is killing
me."

"If only the child might be taken," thought Valentine, "he would get
over it. It is the long suspense that distracts him."

"They want you to come in and eat something," he urged, "there is supper
spread in the dining-room."

"No, I cannot."

He meant, "I cannot rise from my seat." Valentine supposed him only to
say as usual that he could not eat.

"My mind wanders," he presently added, in the same low dull tone; and
then repeated what he had said to his old gardener, "But sometimes I
find relief in prayer."

Valentine went in rather hastily; he was alarmed not so much at the
words as at his own sudden conviction that there was a good deal in
them. They might be true. He must find some one to console, to talk to
him, some one that could exercise influence over him. He knew of no one
but Emily who would be likely to know what to say to him, and he hung
about on the stairs, watching for her, hoping she would come out of
little Anastasia's room; but all was so quiet, that he hoped the little
sufferer might be asleep, and he dared not run the least risk of waking
her.

It was now two o'clock.

John Mortimer saw some one holding aside a dark dress, and moving down
the rose-covered alley towards him. It was not dark, and yet everything
looked dim and confused. The morni