ad no children. One daughter had been born to him
years ago, but had died at three or four years old. His wife had died a
very short while subsequent to the death of his father. He afterwards
married again, a widow lady of the name of Massingbird, who had two
nearly grown-up sons. She had brought her sons home with her to Verner's
Pride, and they had made it their home since.

Mr. Verner kept it no secret that his nephew Lionel was to be his heir;
and, as such, Lionel was universally regarded on the estate. "Always
provided that you merit it," Mr. Verner would say to Lionel in private;
and so he had said to him from the very first. "Be what you ought to
be--what I fondly believe my brother Lionel was: a man of goodness, of
honour, of Christian integrity; a _gentleman_ in the highest acceptation
of the term--and Verner's Pride shall undoubtedly be yours. But if I
find you forget your fair conduct, and forfeit the esteem of good men,
so surely will I leave it away from you."

And that is the introduction. And now we must go back to the golden
light of that spring evening.

Ascending the broad flight of steps and crossing the terrace, the house
door is entered. A spacious hall, paved with delicately-grained marble,
its windows mellowed by the soft tints of stained glass, whose pervading
hues are of rose and violet, gives entrance to reception rooms on either
side. Those on the right hand are mostly reserved for state occasions;
those on the left are dedicated to common use. All these rooms are just
now empty of living occupants, save one. That one is a small room on the
right, behind the two grand drawing-rooms, and it looks out on the side
of the house towards the south. It is called "Mr. Verner's study." And
there sits Mr. Verner himself in it, leaning back in his chair and
reading. A large fire burns in the grate, and he is close to it: he is
always chilly.

Ay, always chilly. For Mr. Verner's last illness--at least, what will in
all probability prove his last, his ending--has already laid hold of
him. One generation passes away after another. It seems but the other
day that a last illness seized upon his father, and now it is his turn:
but several years have elapsed since then. Mr. Verner is not sixty, and
he thinks that age is young for the disorder that has fastened on him.
It is no hurried disorder; he may live for years yet; but the end, when
it does come, will be tolerably sudden: and that he knows. It is water