evidently not been undressed, for his stiff white cravat was still about his neck, and the silken strings of his pantaloons were still tied at the ankles. Moreover, the large signet-ring that had grown too large for his thin finger had not been taken off. It was as if he had hastily thrown off his coat, and put on his dressing-gown; but, though the night was warm, he was shivering, his lower lip trembling, and he had hard work to keep his teeth from chattering together like the glass upon the carafe.

“Father,” cried Claire, catching him by the breast, “then you have heard something?”

“Heard—heard something?” he stammered; and then, seeming to make an effort to recover his sang froid, “heard something? Yes—you—startled me.”

“But—but—oh, papa! It is too horrible!”

She staggered, and had to hold by him to save herself from falling. But recovering somewhat, she held him by one hand, then thrust herself away, looking the trembling man wildly in the face.

“Did you not hear—that cry?”

“No,” he said hastily, “no. What is the matter?”

“Lady Teigne! Quick! Oh, father, it cannot be true!”

“Lady—Lady Teigne?” he stammered, “is—is she—is she ill?”

“She is dead—she is dead!” wailed Claire.

“No, no! No, no! Impossible!” cried the old man, who was shivering visibly.

“It is true,” said Claire. “No, no, it cannot be. I must be wrong. Quick! It may be some terrible fit!”

She clung to his hand, and tried to hurry him out of the room, but he drew back.

“No,” he stammered, “not yet. Your—your news—agitated me, Claire. Does—wait a minute—does anyone—in the—in the house know?”

“No, dear. I thought I heard a cry, and I came down, and she—”

“A fit,” he said hastily, as he took the glass from the top of the water-bottle, filled it, gulped the water down, and set bottle and glass back in their places. “A fit—yes—a fit.”

“Come with me, father, quick!” cried Claire.

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