ll in an instant like, Miss, she made as if she'd
sit up, bein' leanin' on pillows--and so she put out them purty little
hands of hers, with a smile, and that was all--the purty
crature--everyone's sorry afther her. The man was cryin' in the hall
that brought the note.'

The poor came to the door, and made their rude and kindly
lamentations--they were all quite sincere--'His reverence was very good,
but he couldn't have the thought, you know.' It was quite
true--'everyone was sorry.' The brave Magnolia's eyes were red, when
she looked out of the window next morning, and jolly little Doctor Toole
said at the club--

'Ah, Sir, she was a bright little thing--a born lady--such a beauty--and
the best little creature. The town might well be proud of her, in every
way, Sir.' And he fell a blubbering; and old Major O'Neill, who was a
quiet and silent officer, cried in a reserved way, looking into the
fire, with his elbow on the mantelpiece. And Toole said, 'I don't know
how I'll pass that house.'

And many felt the same. Little Lily was there no more--and the Elms were
changed--the light and the grace were gone--and they were only dark old
trees now.

And everyone felt a great desire to find some way--any way--to show
their respect and affection for their good old rector. And I'm sure he
understood it--for liking and reverence, one way or another, will tell
their story. The hushed enquiries at the door, and little offers of
useless services made by stealth through the servants, and such like
foolish kindnesses at such a time--the evidence of a great but helpless
sympathy--are sweet as angelic music.

And who should arrive at night, with all his trunks, or at least a
considerable number of them, and his books and rattletraps, but honest,
simple Dan Loftus. The news was true about his young charge. He had died
of fever at Malaga, and Dick Devereux was at last a step, and a long
one--nearer to the title. So Dan was back again in his old garret.
Travel had not educated him in the world's ways. In them he was the same
queer, helpless tyro. And his costume, though he had a few handsome
articles--for, travelling with a sprig of nobility, he thought it but
right and seemed to dress accordingly--was on that account, perhaps,
only more grotesque than ever. But he had acquired mountains of that
lore in which he and good Doctor Walsingham delighted. He had
transcribed old epitaphs and translated interminable extracts from
archives,