event that had happened; as, it was, I could not help thinking that her chief emotion had been a kind of half fear as to what would become of herself.

Then I reproached myself for thinking so unkindly of her, and resolved that I would not judge her; after that I forgot mademoiselle. I heard the sound of carriage wheels in the distance, and, looking down the long vista of trees, I saw a hearse slowly driven up, and then I knew that the dead Trevelyans had been brought home.

The desolation and sadness of that scene I shall never forget—the hearse, the dark, waving plumes, the sight of the two heavy laden coffins, the servants all in mourning.

A room next the great entrance hall had been prepared; it was all hung with black and lighted with wax tapers. In the midst stood the two coffins covered with a black velvet pall.

On the coffin of Miles Trevelyan, the son and heir, I saw a wreath of flowers. I asked several times who had brought it, but no one seemed to know.

I do not think that any one at Crown Anstey went to rest that night, unless it were mademoiselle. There was something in the event to move the hardest heart.

Father and son had left Crown Anstey so short a time since, full of health, vigor, strength and plans for the future. They lay there now, side by side, silent and dead; no more plans or hopes, wishes or fears. The saddest day I ever remember was the one on which I helped to lay my two unknown kinsmen in the family vault of the Trevelyans.

CHAPTER IV.

It was all over. The morning, with its sad office, had passed; the servants had gone back to their work; the blinds were drawn up, and light once more found its way into the darkened house. The will was read in the library; the whole of the property, entailed and unentailed, was left to his only son, Miles, and after him to his heirs. There was several legacies to his servants, but no mention was made of mademoiselle. I thought it strange at the time, afterward I understood it.

Of course, as the poor young Miles was dead without heirs, I, as next of kin, took his place. I faithfully carried out every wish expressed in the will. That same evening I sent orders to London for a splendid memorial window to be placed in the church, and while I sat wondering whether I had remembered everything that required attention, there came a rap at the library door. Mademoiselle would be glad if I could see her for five minutes.

I went at once to the drawing-room, knowing she would be there. She was dressed in the deepest mourning, and her face was very pale.

"I knew you would spare me a short time," she said. "I want to ask you a question that I could not ask any one else. Of course you were present when the will was read to-day?"

She raised her eyes to mine. I knew not what magnetism, what spell lay in them; but no other eyes were like them. They compelled attention; a man could no more release himself from their glance than he could fly. I was not at all in love with her, yet those eyes held me spell-bound.

"I want you to tell me," she said, "if there was any other will. Did—did Miles leave one?"

As she put the question to me I saw that her lips were parched and burning, her white fingers so tightly clenched that they left great red marks.

"No," I replied; "there was only one will, and that was Sir Barnard's."

A great calm fell over her. After some minutes she looked at me again.

"Was there any mention in that will of me?"

I told her none. Once more she raised those resistless eyes to mine.

"Then I am, indeed, alone in the world—alone and forsaken."

"Nay, nay!" I cried, eagerly; "do not say so. Clare will take care of you."

"And you?" she asked, in a voice that must have melted an anchorite.

"I will help her—or, rather, I will take care of you both."

"What is your sister like?" she asked, eagerly. "Is she very clever—very beautiful? Shall I be frightened at her?"

"She is the sweetest and most gentle of girls—doubly gentle from her great affliction."

"What affliction?" she asked eagerly, "you did not tell me there was anything the matter with her."

"She has a spinal complaint," I replied, "and is unable to move."

"Is it quite incurable?" she asked again.

"We hope not; perhaps a change of air may do something for her; but even at the best, it will be years before she is able to go about."

"I am so sorry," she said; "so very sorry. How sad for you and for her. I can understand why you want a companion for her; she can take no active share in the management of a large establishment like this."

"No, no share at all. We will not decide anything until my sister comes; but it seems to me that she will be most thankful to have you here, that you will be more useful to her than I can say. She would not be able to see guests, give orders or anything of that kind."

There was a strange light in her eyes, a strange, suppressed glitter in her face.

"When will your sister come?" she next inquired.

"I am going to-morrow to fetch her. There will be no need for you to make any alterations. You spoke of going away; there will be no need of that. I leave here to-morrow, and when my sister comes I suppose the sternest British propriety will be satisfied."

She smiled.

"I suppose so, too. And Sir Barnard has not even left me a mourning-ring? Well, I have so much less to be grateful for. The old servants were all remembered, I hope?"

"All of them. I will say good-night, mademoiselle; I have much to attend to. I shall hope to find you well when I return."

What a strange fascination her beauty had! I remember it with a shudder. Her face haunted me all night; I could not forget it.

The following morning I returned to London. I had yet to break the news of our fortune to Clare, and make arrangements for our journey to Crown Anstey.

People who wish to be philosophers tell you money is nothing. Certainly, as far as the spiritual and higher, holier interests of life go, it is not; but as far as this world is concerned, it is almost everything. I had been poor and friendless in London, and then it had seemed to me a desert; now I had money, it was another place—bright, cheerful, every one kind and friendly. I seemed to float in sunshine; the very air around me was elastic, full of hope; every step was a pleasure. What made the difference? I was poor, and now I had money.

Clare was pleased to see me; she cried out in astonishment at my black clothes, so new and glossy.

"Edgar," she said, "I cannot understand you. You have money, clothes. How is it? What has happened?"

I knelt down by her side and took her in my arms.

"Clare," I said, "God has been very kind to us. All of our poverty and privations are ended. Will you be calm and brave if I tell you what it is?"

"They have taken you into partnership!" she cried, rapturously. "They have found out how clever and good you are!"

In the midst of my agitation I laughed at this very unbusiness-like idea.

"It is better than that, Clare. There need be no more business, no more work for me. You remember hearing my mother speak of my father's cousin, Sir Barnard Trevelyan, of Crown Anstey?"

"Yes, I remember it," she said. "I had almost forgotten."

"He is dead, and, sad to say, both his sons are dead. One died with him, and one died years ago. Now do you understand?"

"No," she replied. "They cannot have left us anything, because they did not know us."

"Sir Barnard and his only son died together, and the heir to Crown Anstey, the title and the whole of that vast fortune is—myself."

"You are not jesting, Edgar?"

"No; I am telling you the simple, perfect truth." And then, when she had recovered from what to her was really a shock, I gave her the whole history.

"I hope you will like Mademoiselle, Clare. She is so