uire during the pause that
followed.

"Whose? Your Uncle Silas's. In course of nature he must survive me. He
will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to
clear that name, Maud?"

I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.

"I can tell you, Maud, if my life could have done it, it should not have
been undone. But I had almost made up my mind to leave all to time to
illuminate, or _consume_. But I think little Maud would like to
contribute to the restitution of her family name. It may cost you
something. Are you willing to buy it at a sacrifice? Your Uncle Silas,"
he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tones that sounded almost
terrible, "lies under an intolerable slander. He troubles himself little
about it; he is selfishly sunk in futurity--a feeble visionary. I am not
so. The character and influence of an ancient family are a peculiar
heritage--sacred, but destructible. You and I, we'll leave one proof on
record which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world."

That night my father bade me good-night early. I had fallen into a doze
when I was roused by a dreadful crash and a piercing scream from Mrs.
Rusk. Scream followed scream, pealing one after the other unabated,
wilder and more terror-stricken. Then came a strange lull, and the dull
sounds of some heavy body being moved.

What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my father's chamber? It
was the visitor whom he had so long expected, with whom he was to make
the unknown journey, leaving me alone. The intruder was Death!

_II.--The Sorceries of Bartram-Haugh_

One of those fearful aneurisms that lie close to the heart had given way
in a moment. He had fallen, with the dreadful crash I had heard, dead
upon the floor. He fell across the door, which caused a difficulty in
opening it. Mrs. Rusk could not force it open. No wonder she had given
way to terror. I think I should have lost my reason.

I do not know how those awful days, and still more awful nights, passed
over. Lady Knollys came, and was very kind. She was odd, but her
eccentricity was leavened with strong commonsense; and I have often
thought since with gratitude of the tact with which she managed my
grief.

I did not know where to write to Dr. Bryerly, to whom I had promised the
key, but in accordance with my father's written directions, his death
was forthwith published in the principal London papers. He came at
midnight, accord