s are concerned. Angela set to her charitable
duties with a steady determination that made her services very
valuable. She undertook the sole management of a clothing club, in
itself a maddening thing to ordinary mortals, and had an eye to the
distribution of the parish coals. Of mothers' meetings and other
cheerful parochial entertainments, she became the life and soul.
Giving up her mathematics and classical reading, she took to knitting
babies' vests and socks instead; indeed, the number of articles which
her nimble fingers turned out in a fortnight was a pleasant surprise
for the cold toes of the babies. And, as Mr. Fraser had prophesied,
she found that her labour was of a sort which brought a certain
reward.

CHAPTER LI

On one point, however, Angela's efforts failed completely; she could
make no headway with her father. He shrank more than ever from her
society, and at last asked her to oblige him by allowing him to follow
his own path in peace. Of Arthur's death he had never spoken to her,
or she to him, but she knew that he had heard of it.

Philip had heard of it thus. On that Christmas afternoon he had been
taking his daily exercise when he met Lady Bellamy returning from the
Abbey House. The carriage stopped, and she got out to speak to him.

"Have you been to the Abbey House to pay a Christmas visit?" he asked.
"It is very kind of you to come and see us so soon after your return."

"I am the bearer of bad news, so I did not loiter."

"Bad news! what was it?"

"Mr. Heigham is dead," she answered, watching his face narrowly.

"Dead, impossible!"

"He died of enteric fever at Madeira. I have just been to break the
news to Angela."

"Oh, indeed, she will be pained; she was very fond of him, you know."

Lady Bellamy smiled contemptuously.

"Did you ever see any one put to the extremest torture? If you have,
you can guess how your daughter was 'pained.'"

Philip winced.

"Well, I can't help it, it is no affair of mine. Good-bye," and then,
as soon as she was out of hearing; "I wonder if she lies, or if she
has murdered him. George must have been putting on the screw."

Into the particulars of Arthur Heigham's death, or supposed death, he
never inquired. Why should he? It was no affair of his; he had long
ago washed his hands of the whole matter, and left things to take
their chance. If he was dead, well and good, he was very sorry for
him; if he was alive, well