nham that Dr. Gannet was of good
hope, and thereupon he re-entered the ranks of the voluminous procession,
already winding spirally round the dome of St. Paul's. And there, said
he, is the tomb of Beauchamp. Everything occurred according to his
predictions, and he was entirely devoid of astonishment. Yet he would
fain have known the titles of the slain admiral's naval battles. He
protested he had a right to know, for he was the hero's uncle, and loved
him. He assured the stupid scowling people that he loved Nevil Beauchamp,
always loved the boy, and was the staunchest friend the fellow had. And
saying that, he certainly felt himself leaning up against the cathedral
rails in the attitude of Dr. Shrapnel, and crying, 'Beauchamp!
Beauchamp!' And then he walked firmly out of Romfrey oakwoods, and, at a
mile's distance from her, related to his countess Rosamund that the
burial was over without much silly ceremony, and that she needed to know
nothing of it whatever.

Rosamund's face awoke him. It was the face of a chalk-quarry,
featureless, hollowed, appalling.

The hour was no later than three in the morning. He quitted the
detestable bed where a dream--one of some half-dozen in the course of his
life-had befallen him. For the maxim of the healthy man is: up, and have
it out in exercise when sleep is for foisting base coin of dreams upon
you! And as the healthy only are fit to live, their maxims should be law.
He dressed and directed his leisurely steps to the common, under a black
sky, and stars of lively brilliancy. The lights of a carriage gleamed on
Dr. Shrapnel's door. A footman informed Lord Romfrey that Colonel Halkett
was in the house, and soon afterward the colonel appeared.

'Is it over? I don't hear him,' said Lord Romfrey.

Colonel Halkett grasped his hand. 'Not yet,' he said. 'Cissy can't be got
away. It's killing her. No, he's alive. You may hear him now.'

Lord Romfrey bent his ear.

'It's weaker,' the colonel resumed. 'By the way, Romfrey, step out with
me. My dear friend, the circumstances will excuse me: you know I'm not a
man to take liberties. I'm bound to tell you what your wife writes to me.
She says she has it on her conscience, and can't rest for it. You know
women. She wants you to speak to the man here--Shrapnel. She wants Nevil
to hear that you and he were friendly before he dies; thinks it would
console the poor dear fellow. That's only an idea; but it concerns her,
you see. I'm shocked to h