his door, and with the eagerness of a messenger of
news, opened it without awaiting his answer.

'Oh, captain, jewel, do you know what? There's poor Miss Lily
Walsingham; and what do you think but she's dead--the poor little thing;
gone to-night, Sir--not half an hour ago.'

He staggered a little, and put his hand toward his sword, like a man
struck by a robber, and looked at her with a blank stare. She thought he
was out of his mind, and was frightened.

''Tis only me, Sir, Mrs. Irons.'

'A--thank you;' and he walked towards the chimney, and then towards the
door, like a man looking for something; and on a sudden clasping his
forehead in his hands, he cried a wild and terrible appeal to the Maker
and Judge of all things.

''Tis impossible--oh, no--oh, no--it's _not_ true.'

He was in the open air, he could not tell how, and across the bridge,
and before the Elms--a dream--the dark Elms--dark everything.

'Oh, no--it can't be--oh, no--oh, no;' and he went on saying as he
stared on the old house, dark against the sky, 'Oh, no--oh, no.'

Two or three times he would have gone over to the hall-door to make
enquiry, but he sickened at the thought. He clung to that hope, which
was yet not a hope, and he turned and walked quickly down the river's
side by the Inchicore-road. But the anguish of suspense soon drew him
back again; and now his speech was changed, and he said--

'Yes, she's gone--she's gone--oh, she's gone--she's certainly gone.'

He found himself at the drawing-room window that looked into the little
garden at the front of the house, and tapping at the window-pane. He
remembered, all on a sudden--it was like waking--how strange was such a
summons. A little after he saw a light crossing the hall, and he rang
the door-bell. John Tracy opened the door. Yes, it was all true.

The captain was looking very pale, John thought, but otherwise much as
usual. He stared at the old servant for some seconds after he told him
all, but said nothing, not even good-night, and turned away. Old John
was crying; but he called after the captain to take care of the step at
the gate: and as he shut the hall-door his eye caught, by the light of
his candle, a scribbling in red chalk, on the white door-post, and he
stooped to read it, and muttered, 'Them mischievous young blackguards!'
and began rubbing it with the cuff of his coat, his cheek still wet with
tears. For even our grief is volatile; or, rather, it is two tunes that
a