cannot wish it. Matthew must grow up to be a different man from what he now gives promise of being if he would look upon my daughter with the thought of making her his wife. Surely, my lord, you will agree with me, in this?”

“Yes, yes, Sir William, I do, certainly,” the earl answered sadly. “I have often wished that Matthew was different; and I have never held the wish so deeply as I have done since I have known your darling. Oh! if the boy were worthy of her how happy we all might be! But, who shall say what may happen? He is young yet. What he may be when he shall have grown to manhood we can not tell.”

“That is so,” nodded the baronet thoughtfully. After a little pause he added: “But, my lord, you will promise me, unless Matthew shall be truly worthy—in every way a good and reliable man—you will not allow him to offer love to Cordelia?”

“Yes, William, I promise that. But the promise was not needed. The good of your child will be to me as precious and as eagerly cared for as my own life could be.”

“Another promise I would have, my lord; Cordelia shall never be urged to marry against her will. Oh! what misery have I seen from that cause! A marriage without love! It is a sin—a crime against common humanity, if not against heaven! Let my child be reared as I know you will rear her, and her own heart will be the safest, surest guide to happiness and peace in the future.”

“Sir William,” the old man replied, with deep feeling, “I give you that promise from my heart. Your sweet child shall never, with my consent be asked to wed without love. If I had a daughter of my own, it should be my chief desire—I may say, the end and aim of my life, to make her happy. I would keep her pure, and good and true; being well assured that in her blessedness my own greatest blessing of life would be found. And, my dear son—for you are as a son to me—I will do by your daughter as I would by a daughter of my own.”

Sir William murmured a few words in grateful response; but they were not needed. His tears, and the impulsive grasp of his feeble hand, spoke louder than any words could have done.

“Dear father,” the sick man said, breaking in upon a silence that lasted a full minute, he still held the earl’s hand, not having relinquished it since he had caught it in his impulse of gratitude. “My dear father, if I may call you so—”

“Never call me by any other name,” the aged nobleman interposed. He gazed for a few seconds into the pale, wan face upon the pillow, tears starting from his eyes while he did so; and then resumed: “William, my son, I know not why it is, but it is a fact nevertheless, a fact that you have won a place in my heart close by the side of my own noble boy. Ah! you know I may call him noble.”

“I never knew a nobler man,” the baronet responded quickly.

“Bless you!” the earl went on, two big tears starting down his ruddy cheeks as he spoke.

“I was saying that I could not understand it. I cannot quite understand the way and manner in which my heart has gone out to you. It is not that I love you. No, no. I could not have helped doing that had I tried. No; the mystery is this. In losing you or in contemplating your loss, I feel as though I were losing my all of life. Little Cordelia will be my only love.”

“My lord! Do you forget your son?”

The old man shook his head with dubious look and motion, while a shadow that told of pain rested on his face.

“No,” he answered, “I think of him continually.” He paused a moment, and then abruptly asked: “William, are you inclined to laugh at presentiments?”

“No, my lord, far from it. I have had presentiments of my own that were later fulfilled to the letter.”

“Chester, you speak of my son. It is a presentiment I have in relation to him that has drawn my heart so closely to yourself. Something tells me I shall see him never again on earth. It is not the result of a dream; it is not a weird fancy; it has come to me like a revelation, and I cannot put it away. But let it pass. I will not darken your last hours of life with my gloomsome forebodings. Had you not another request to make of me in relation to your child?”

The baronet had evidently thought to combat the unhappy presentiment of his old friend, but when that friend had himself proposed that the subject be dropped he had no desire to reopen it. To the last question he replied, after a little reflection:

“Yes, my lord, there is one other subject upon which I wish to speak. I believe my worldly affairs—affairs of property—are all settled. My agent at Leyburn will account to you annually in the matter of rents. The amount will be from £15,000 to £18,000 a year. Something must be allowed for repairs and improvements. That agent, I think, is strictly honest; yet it may be well for you to have an eye on the estate for yourself. The distance is not great. You can go and return, with plenty of time for business, in two days, with only one night away from your home.

“My bank account will give you £10,000 more, as it now stands. Of course you will be adding to it from the returns of the agent. Thus you will see, I shall leave behind for my child an annual income of at least £25,000.”

“And you would request me to look after this?” broke in the earl, with a surprise which he did not attempt to hide. “My dear Sir William, do you suppose—”

“My lord! My dear father—!” cried the baronet, as soon as he could gain the power of speech—for his powers were failing rapidly, “how could you mistake me? Bless my soul! I should as soon have thought of asking you to be kind and merciful to little Cordelia! Oh! no, no: I will tell you what I had to ask, and I pointed out the sum and substance of the dear one’s wealth to show that my request was reasonable—that the cost would not stand in the way of its fulfillment.

“My lord—listen: It is my earnest desire that my child shall never be sent away from your immediate care—never from your castle while you find home in it—never away from your daily loving sight—for the purpose of attending any school. She can have tutors here; and she shall be taught whatever she desires to know.”

And he then went on to enumerate the more important branches of education that had occurred to him. In the end, said the earl, holding his friend’s hand while he spoke:

“My dear William, it shall be as you have said; and, I may add, it would have been so if you had not spoken. Expense! Pshaw! Why bless and save us! I can’t spend the twentieth part of my income in the ordinary way of living. If I spend a portion of it for the good of our little cherub, I shall be happy. However, that is all understood. And now, is there not something more?”

“No, I think of nothing, It is growing dark.”

“Yes; the sun is near its setting.”

“Near its setting? What do you mean? It must have set long ago.”

“Certainly not. Open your eyes—there. Do you see where the sunbeams fall upon the wainscot, near the door?”

The baronet turned his face in the direction pointed out and shook his head in disappointment.

“I can not see it. It is dark—dark. My lord.”

“Here, William. What is it?” Thus speaking, the earl moved softly back to