and a chronic invalid, had retired to his room for his
afternoon sleep. The younger Clinton and I had gone out for a stroll
round the grounds, and since we returned our conversation had run upon
the family history till it arrived at the legend of the family curse.
Presently, the door of the library was slowly opened, and Sir Henry, in
his black velvet coat, which formed such a striking contrast to his
snowy white beard and hair, entered the room. I rose from my chair, and,
giving him my arm, assisted him to his favourite couch. He sank down
into its luxurious depths with a sigh, but as he did so his eyes caught
the old volume which I had laid on the table beside it. He started
forward, took the book in his hand, and looked across at his son.

"Did you take this book down?" he said sharply.

"Yes, father; I got it out to show it to Bell. He is interested in the
history of the Abbey, and----"

"Then return it to its place at once," interrupted the old man, his
black eyes blazing with sudden passion. "You know how I dislike having
my books disarranged, and this one above all. Stay, give it to me."

He struggled up from the couch, and, taking the volume, locked it up in
one of the drawers of his writing-table, and then sat back again on the
sofa. His hands were trembling, as if some sudden fear had taken
possession of him.

"Did you say that Phyllis Curzon is coming to-morrow?" asked the old man
presently of his son in an irritable voice.

"Yes, father, of course; don't you remember? Mrs. Curzon and Phyllis are
coming to stay for a fortnight; and, by the way," he added, starting to
his feet as he spoke, "that reminds me I must go and tell Grace----"

The rest of the sentence was lost in the closing of the door. As soon as
we were alone, Sir Henry looked across at me for a few moments without
speaking. Then he said,--

"I am sorry I was so short just now. I am not myself. I do not know what
is the matter with me. I feel all to pieces. I cannot sleep. I do not
think my time is very long now, and I am worried about Allen. The fact
is, I would give anything to stop this engagement. I wish he would not
marry."

"I am sorry to hear you say that, sir," I answered. "I should have
thought you would have been anxious to see your son happily married."

"Most men would," was the reply; "but I have my reasons for wishing
things otherwise."

"What do you mean?" I could not help asking.

"I cannot explain myself; I wish I c