all over with silk velvet and gold."

"How old was he?" asked some voice in the group.

"Just in his sixty-fifth, and a fine hale man for his years; he might
have lived to have been a hundred."

"Did they find any money in the house?" whispered a long-nosed,
sharp-visaged man; "I heard that he had lots hidden away under the
thatch. Old Grenard knows that a box containing several thousand gold
guineas was taken away."

"Then the devil, or old Grenard, must have flown away with it," said the
sexton of the parish, "for I was there when they seized the poor lad,
and he had not a penny in his possession."

"Will they bury him with his wife?" asked the old farmer.

"He'll never rest beside her," said a man near him. "He treated her
about as well as he did her poor boy."

"How can the like o' him rest in the grave?" chimed in a female voice.
"I've no manner of doubt but he'll haunt the old Hall, as his father did
afore him. Mercy on us, sirs! what an awful like ghost he will make!"

"Was old Squire Anthony ever seen?" said another woman, in a mysterious
whisper.

"Ay, scores of times. I've heard that the old miser met him one night
himself upon the staircase, and that was the reason why he shut up the
Hall."

"Who'll heir the property?" asked the old farmer.

"Algernon's son Godfrey; a fine handsome fellow. He'll make ducks and
drakes of the miser's gold. We shall have fine times when he comes to
the Hall."

"He'll lower the rents and the tithes upon us. Come, my lads, let's go
to the public-house and drink his health."

The male portion of the group instantly acceded to the proposal; and
Frederic Wildegrave set spurs to his horse and rode off, disgusted with
the scene he had witnessed, and returned to his home with a sorrowful
heart.

CHAPTER XXI.

All the fond visions faithful mem'ry kept,
Rush'd o'er his soul; he bow'd his head and wept,
Such tears as contrite sinners pour alone,
When mercy pleads before the eternal throne,
When naked, helpless, prostrate in the dust,
The spirit owns its condemnation just,
And seeks for pardon and redeeming grace,
Through Him who died to save a fallen race.--S.M.

By the light of a solitary candle, and seated at a small table in the
attic of a public-house, and close to the miserable bed in which Mary
Mathews was tossing to and fro in the restless delirium of fever, two
men were busily engaged in dividing a large heap of gold, w