s
written lay unregarded upon his lap; his eyes were still riveted on the
little figure at the fireplace.

The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers. He
looked about him for a fresh supply, and found nothing. His fresh young
voice rose high through the silence of the room.

"More!" he cried. "More!"

His mother held up a warning finger. "Hush!" she whispered. He shrank
away from her as she tried to take him on her knee, and looked across
the room at his father. "More!" he burst out louder than ever. Romayne
beckoned to me, and pointed to the boy.

I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with me--he
reiterated his petition, standing at his father's knees.

"Lift him to me," said Romayne.

I could barely hear the words: even his strength to whisper seemed to be
fast leaving him. He kissed his son--with a panting fatigue under that
trifling exertion, pitiable to see. As I placed the boy on his feet
again, he looked up at his dying father, with the one idea still in his
mind.

"More, papa! More!"

Romayne put the will into his hand.

The child's eyes sparkled. "Burn?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes!"

Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I stopped him. He
struggled with me. I forgot the privilege of the black robe. I took him
by the throat.

The boy threw the will into the fire. "Oh!" he shouted, in high delight,
and clapped his chubby hands as the bright little blaze flew up the
chimney. I released the priest.

In a frenzy of rage and despair, he looked round at the persons in
the room. "I take you all to witness," he cried; "this is an act of
madness!"

"You yourself declared just now," said the lawyer, "that Mr. Romayne was
in perfect possession of his faculties."

The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man. They looked at
each other.

For one awful moment Romayne's eyes brightened, Romayne's voice rallied
its power, as if life was returning to him. Frowning darkly, the priest
put his question.

"What did you do it for?"

Quietly and firmly the answer came:

"Wife and child."

The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell. With those sacred words on his
lips, Romayne died.

London, 6th May.--At Stella's request, I have returned to Penrose--with
but one fellow-traveler. My dear old companion, the dog, is coiled up,
fast asleep at my feet, while I write these lines. Penrose has gained
strength enough to keep me company in the sitting-room. In