her of a living child--it was the friendly voice of Lady Peveril--
told him that he was no longer a husband.

Lady Peveril placed in Bridgenorth's arms the infant whose birth had
cost him so dear, and conjured him to remember that his Alice was not
yet dead, since she survived in the helpless child.

"Take her away--take her away!" said the unhappy man. "Let me not look
on her! It is but another blossom that has bloomed to fade."

"I will take the child for a season," said Lady Peveril, "since the
sight of her is so painful to you; and the little Alice shall share the
nursery of our Julian until it shall be pleasure, and not pain, for you
to look on her."

"That hour will never come," said the unhappy father; "she will follow
the rest--God's will be done! Lady, I thank you--I trust her to your
care."

It is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the duties of a
mother to the little orphan, and the puny infant gradually improved in
strength and in loveliness.

Sir Geoffrey was naturally fond of children, and so much compassionated
the sorrows of his neighbour, that morning after morning he made
Moultrassie Hall the termination of his walk or ride, and said a single
word of kindness as he passed. "How is it with you, Master Bridgenorth?"
the knight would say, halting his horse by the latticed window. "I just
looked in to bid you keep a good heart, man, and to tell you that Julian
is well, and little Alice is well, and all are well at Martindale
Castle."

"I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; my grateful duty waits on Lady Peveril," was
generally Bridgenorth's only answer.

The voice of Peveril suddenly assumed a new and different tone in the
month of April, 1660. He rushed into the apartment of the astonished
major with his eyes sparkling and called out, "Up, up, neighbour! No
time now to mope in the chimney-corner! Where is your buff coat and
broadsword, man? Take the true side once in your life, and mend past
mistakes. Monk has declared at London--for the king. Fairfax is up in
Yorkshire--for the king, for the king, man! I have a letter from Fairfax
to secure Derby and Chesterfield with all the men I can make. All are
friends now, and you and I, good neighbour, will charge abreast as good
neighbours should!" The sturdy cavalier's heart became too full, and
exclaiming, "Did ever I think to live to see this happy day!" he wept,
to his own surprise as much as to that of Bridgenorth.

The neighbours were both at