and Mr. Parry had thought that Dr. Gordon might as well look in.

Lady Frances sat in a roundbacked chair, one of those chairs on which back and arms are on a level. She wore a white muslin peignoir; a long and picturesque robe, tied at the neck, at the wrists, and round the waist, and descending quite to the feet. Her hair, entirely uncombed, floated freely over her shoulders, and down beneath the level of the sleeves. Martha Watkins now gently brushed the top of her head, now drew a comb through the long tresses.

"Did you see anything at the window, Martha?" said Lady Frances.

Yes, my lady, its the howl. He do live in the copse."

"Live in the copse? A white owl," said Lady Frances. "Have you seen it before?

"Oh yes, my lady, we've often seed it of nights."

"Often seen it," said her ladyship, with a little shiver. "There, that will do; close the window, and send Millikins to put up my things."

Millikins came to the door, looking troubled. "If you please, my lady, Dr. Gordon wishes to speak to your ladyship."

"Ask Dr. Gordon to come in," said she, taking her seat.

The stately and venerable form of the old physician was seen at the door. Millikins half closed it after him, but remained, as it were, framed in the aperture. Without a word Dr. Gordon · walked close up to Lady Frances. Then he took her hand, gently raised it, bent over it, and kissed it.

"I understand you, Dr. Gordon," said Lady Frances, looking very pale.

"Yes, my dear lady. All is peaceful now. Better so, better so," said the old man.

"Dr. Gordon," said Lady Frances, after a pause, " will you answer me one question faithfully?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything that could have been done-anything that I could have done-anything that, if I had been a poor woman, I should have done, that has been omitted in the care of Sir Robert?" said the lady.

"My dear Lady Frances, there has been nothing which human skill or care could effect which has been omitted. Nothing that any mother, from the gracious lady at Windsor to the poor woman at your lodge, could have done, or could

Before the doctor could answer there was a little bit of scuffle at the door. "You can't come in, Mr. Wilkinson; my lady is not dressed "—

"Never mind my hair," said Lady Frances ; "What have you to say, Wilkinson?"

"An express has just brought a despatch for your ladyship." "Give it to me. Read it, if you please, Dr. Gordon, my eyes have begun to swim."

"Turner to Lady Frances Plumville. Come to Barton Towers without delay. Lord Barton has had a fit."

"Have the carriage round at once, Wilkinson. Do not forget your great-coat. Send someone on horseback to the station to order a special train. I shall not stop till I arrive at Barton Towers. Dr. Gordon, you will be kind enough to attend to my request, and to stay here till Mr. Pierce comes. Millikins, put up the jewel case. You need not put any dresses up, of course. Get everything ready

at once."

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE LATE SIR ROBERT.

THE hatchment of arms of the late Sir Robert Branksea Barton Plumville had been fixed over the central door of the hall. The scutcheon was depicted on a black ground; for Sir Robert had been,

heraldically speaking, buried with spear and with shield as the last male of his race. He was, as far as letters patent can confer such nobility as has none but a parchment origin, certainly the second knight baronet in lineal descent. But if the griping and servile character by which Plum had risen into Plumville had been his paternal inheritance, the blood of the Norman dukes and Saxon kings ran in his infant veins by reason of his descent from the house of Barton de Raville. One sole and single order as to the funereal ceremonies had come direct from Lady Frances. The azure chief was to be blazoned quarterly-first and fourth-all the imaginative Plumville bearings were to be crammed into second and third. Quod feci feci might have have been replaced by Plumvilla fuit.

The will of Sir Robert Baker Plumville had been carefully framed to provide against one dreaded contingency. It was only the fear of that contingency that had induced the baronet, it was supposed, to overcome the strong natural repugnance that he shared with many a less selfish man to give directions as to his last testament. Having overcome that dislike, he set to work with all the persistent energy of his nature. The motive was this.

In a remote part of the county of Blackshire lay the village in which had been reared the original stock of the Plums. Thence had emigrated Robert Plum, alias

Robert Plumville. In fact, a hardy, poor, decent, hard-working race still bore the unaugmented name, and supported themselves in the district as miners, colliers, puddlers, or whatnot, by the honest labour of their hands. The one great terror of Sir Robert Baker Plumville was, lest by any evil

chance any of the great Plumville property should be inherited by these un-ennobled Plums.

Hence the anxiety of the baronet for his late marriage-contracted after the loss of a son by a former wife. Hence the almost regal festivities which hailed the birth and the christening of the poor wizened little infant borne him by Lady Frances; the infant towards whom its mother had to strive, as a matter of conscience, to do her duty. Hence the skill of the lawyers that had been devoted to the framing of Sir Robert's will.

The position of Lady Frances had been too carefully provided for in the marriage settlements to make it necessary to refer to her ladyship in the will. Exclusive of what she possessed, either in full or for life--all went to the infant baronet. In case-for even baronets are mortal-of the death of Sir Robert Branksea Barton Plumville without issue, the business was to be disposed of, the land, with the exception of that lying in a ring fence round the hall, was to be sold, and the proceeds, together with the reserved land and buildings, were to be devoted to charitable purposes. The charity designated was the establishment of a hospital or house of retreat for idiots and lunatics, to whose reception the hall was to be devoted, under the name of the "Plumville Asylum." Having thus effectually excluded the Plums, Sir Robert could breathe his last with a tranquil conscience.

One other point was set forth in detail in the will. That document directed the erection of a splendid mortuary chapel, as an adjunct to the new parish church of Brierley, which had been erected within the precincts of Plumville Park, under the invocation of the Evangelist and the Baptist. On the north of the chancel of the church a more

lofty roof was to cover a wider aisle. Pierced windows were to communicate with the chancel and with the nave. Ponderous brass gates were to give internal and external admission from church and from park. A crypt beneath the marble pavement was to be prepared for the last resting-place of the line, in which the coffin of the first baronet was to be re-interred. In the centre of the chapel an altar tomb, copied from that of King Henry VII. in Westminster Abbey, was to support the effigy of the founder. All that was wanted to complete the design, in an æsthetic point of view, was the inscription, Orate pro anima ejus. But an invitation of this kind was quite out of the limits of the baronet's ideas. If he had been convinced that he possessed a soul, he would probably have considered whether he could have made money out of the property. If he had been a man of reading, he would have envied those adroit vagabonds who are recorded to have bargained with the Author of evil on the terms of exchanging this shadowy unreality for substantial wealth and pleasure. The usual moral of the monkish stories of this nature, evincing how, after all, the Evil One was outwitted by the production of the cowl of St. Francis in extremis, or by some similarly conclusive expedient, would have highly delighted Sir Robert. He would have readily run the risk-first for the pecuniary consideration, secondly for the yet intenser delight of actually cheating the devil. As it was, the altar tomb represented the utmost hopes of Sir Robert, and his clearest notions of immortality.

The remains of Sir Robert Branksea Barton Plumville had been laid in the marble crypt. The stir of the funeral was over, and a deeper solitude had settled on the

Hall. The orders of Lady Frances, whose life interest deferred the execution of the will as to the sale of the property, were awaited as to any change of disposition. But

Lady Frances could spare no time from the couch of her grandfather to attend to matters affecting the Plumville property. Her interest -her thought, that is to say-in the matter ceased with the snapping of the frail link that depended on the life of the infant baronet. One other link remained-that of the odious name-and in the course of nature that link, was now likely to snap.

The octogenarian-nearly nonogenarian baron-one of the oldest, heraldically speaking, of his order, made a good fight for his life. Extreme age being suspended in the scales, balanced by iron vigour of constitution, when sickness came in aid of the first or hostile element, the result could not long be doubtful. But Lady Frances tended her grandfather's bed by night and by day. The old lord could hardly bear her to leave the room. All his former tenderness for her childish days-for those of her mother-had returned. It seemed to be reciprocated. Lord Barton never said to her what he

Lady Frances tried to save the child," said I. "She never neglected doing her duty to it."

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"Her duty," said my wife, indignantly; a pretty idea of duty for a mother to attend to her own child!"

"It is more than they all do," quoth I," especially in France."

"More shame to them, then," says she; "but we have no baby-farming here. Louis, I wish you would alter all that part."

"My love," said I," you speak as if I could control events, or make people different from the truth in order to please you."

"Well," she replied, "I think she is a most unnatural character; I don't mean, of course, an imaginary character. I wish she was. But I can never forgive her."

"I hope she will meet a more merciful judge, then," said I. “It is well for all of us that we are not left to the mercies of our best human friends."