box yourself up in the
house, keeping from everybody, and you hear nothing. You might as well
be living at the bottom of a coal-pit. Old Hare had another stroke in
the court at Lynneborough, and that's why my mistress is gone to the
Grove to-day."

"Who says Richard Hare's come home, Wilson?"

The question--the weak, scarcely audible question--had come from the
dying boy. Wilson threw up her hands, and made a bound to the bed. "The
like of that!" she uttered, aside to Mrs. Vine. "One never knows when to
take these sick ones. Master William, you hold your tongue and drop to
sleep again. Your papa will be home soon from Lynneborough; and if you
talk and get tired, he'll say it's my fault. Come shut your eyes. Will
you have a bit more jelly?"

William, making no reply to the offer of jelly, buried his face again on
the pillow. But he was grievously restless; the nearly worn-out spirit
was ebbing and flowing.

Mr. Carlyle was at Lynneborough. He always had much business there at
assize time and the _Nisi Prius_ Court; but the previous day he had not
gone himself, Mr. Dill had been dispatched to represent him.

Between seven and eight he returned home, and came into William's
chamber. The boy brightened up at the well-known presence.

"Papa!"

Mr. Carlyle sat down on the bed and kissed him. The passing beams of
the sun, slanting from the horizon, shone into the room, and Mr. Carlyle
could view well the dying face. The gray hue of death was certainly on
it.

"Is he worse?" he exclaimed hastily, to Madame Vine, who was jacketed,
and capped, and spectacled, and tied up round the throat, and otherwise
disguised, in her universal fashion.

"He appears worse this evening, sir--more weak."

"Papa," panted William, "is the trial over?"

"What trial, my boy?"

"Sir Francis Levison's."

"It was over yesterday. Never trouble your head about him, my brave boy,
he is not worth it."

"But I want to know. Will they hang him?"

"He is sentenced to it."

"Did he kill Hallijohn?"

"Yes. Who has been talking to him upon the subject?" Mr. Carlyle
continued to Madame Vine, with marked displeasure in his tone.

"Wilson mentioned it, sir," was the low answer.

"Oh, papa! What will he do? Will Jesus forgive _him_?"

"We must hope it."

"Do you hope it, papa?"

"Yes. I wish that all the world may be forgiven, William, whatever may
have been their sins. My child, how restless you seem!"

"I can't keep in one place; th