Then suddenly
changing his mind, he said, "No, to town."

"Is he gone, Bella?" said Kellett, as his daughter entered.

"Yes; and before I could thank him for his coming."

"I think I said enough," said he, with a fierce laugh, which made her
suddenly turn and look at him.

It was all she could do to repress a sudden cry of horror; for one side
of his face was distorted by palsy, and the mouth drawn all awry.

"What's this here, Bella?" said he, trying to touch his cheek with his
hand; "a kind of stiffness--a sort of--Eh, are you crying, darling?"

"No; it was something in my eye pained me," said she, turning away to
hide her face.

"Give me a looking-glass, quickly," cried he.

"No, no," said she, forcing a laugh; "you have not shaved these two
days, and you are quite neglected-look-ing. You sha'n't see yourself in
such a state."

"Bring it this minute, I say," said he, passionately, and in a voice
that grew less and less articulate every moment.

"Now pray be patient, dearest papa."

"Then I'll go for it myself;" and with these words he grasped the arm
of the chair and tried to rise.

"There, there," said she, softly forcing him back into his seat, "I 'll
fetch it at once. I wish you would be persuaded, dear papa--" began she,
still holding the glass in her hands. But he snatched it rudely from
her, and placed it before him.

"That's what it is," said he, at last; "handsome Paul Kellett they used
to call me at Corfu. I wonder what they'd say now?"

"It is a mere passing thing, a spasm of some kind."

"Ay," said he, with a mocking laugh, to which the distortion imparted
a shocking expression. "Both sides will be the same--to-morrow or next
day--I know that."

She could hear no more, but, covering her face with her hands, sobbed
bitterly.

Kellett still continued to look at himself in the glass; and whether
the contortion was produced by the malady or a passing emotion, a
half-sardonic laugh was on his features as he said, "I was wrong when I
said I'd never be chapfallen."

CHAPTER XXV. A CHURCHYARD.

There come every now and then, in our strange climate, winter days
which imitate the spring, with softened sunlight, glistening leaves, and
warbling birds; even the streams unite in the delusion, and run clearly
along with eddying circles, making soft music among the stones. These
delicious intervals are full of pleasant influences, and the garden
breath that floats into the open drawing-room