nothing
last night about going away, and now he is leaving by this afternoon's
coach; besides, although he laughed and talked as usual one could see
with half an eye that it was forced. So you have actually refused him?"

"Of course I have, how can you ask such a question? It was the most
perfectly absurd idea I ever heard of."

"Well, I hope that you will never be sorry for it, Mary."

"There is not much fear of that," Mary said, with a toss of her head,
"and let me say that it is not very polite, either of you or him, to
think that I should be ready to give up all my plans in life, the first
time I am asked, and that by a gentleman who has not the slightest
sympathy with them. It is a very silly and tiresome affair altogether,
and I do hope I shall never hear anything of it again."

CHAPTER III.

Cuthbert Hartington had been back in town but two days when he received
a letter from Mr. Brander apprising him of the sudden death of his
father. It was a terrible shock, for he had no idea whatever that Mr.
Hartington was in any way out of health. Cuthbert had written only the
day before to say that he should be down at the end of the week, for
indeed he felt unable to settle down to his ordinary course of life in
London. He at once sent off a telegram ordering the carriage to meet him
by the evening train, and also one to Mr. Brander begging him to be at
the house if possible when he arrived.

Upon hearing from the lawyer that his father had been aware that he
might be carried off at any moment by heart disease, but that he had
strictly forbidden the doctor and himself writing to him, or informing
anyone of the circumstances, he said--

"It is just like my father, but I do wish it had not been so. I might
have been down with him for the last three months of his life."

"The Squire went on just in his usual way, Cuthbert. I am sure that he
preferred it so. He shrunk, as he said, from knowing that people he met
were aware that his days were numbered, and even with me after our first
conversation on the subject, he made no allusion whatever to it. He was
as cheery and bright as ever, and when I last met him a week ago, even I
who knew the circumstances, could see no difference whatever in his
manner. I thought he was wrong, at first, but I came to the conclusion
afterwards that his decision was not an unwise one. He spared you three
months of unavailing pain; he had no fear of death, and was able to go
about