the coming end, he stumbled
forward, to sink crushed and humbled to his knees before the face of
death.

"My poor child!" he groaned.

"I knew--you would come," moaned the girl, faintly. "Mother--quick--
papa--kind to her--once more--suffered so--so much--"

With her last strength, her trembling little fingers placed those of
Vanleigh upon the hand of his neglected, forsaken wife; and then, as a
shudder ran through her frame, her nerveless arm dropped, and her head
turned away to sink pillowed on Richard's arm. There was a smile upon
her lip, as her eyes were bent fixedly upon his, and then as he gazed he
saw that their loving light faded, to give place to a far-off, awful
stare, and a deep groan burst from the young man's breast.

Vanleigh started up at that, exclaiming wildly--

"Quick--a doctor--the nearest physician--do you hear!"

"It is too late," said Richard, sadly. "Your child is dead."

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

THREE MONTHS AFTER.

"Why did you come, Humphrey? Why did you hunt me out?" cried Richard,
in answer to a speech made by the broad-shouldered West-country-man, who
had been ushered in by Mrs Fiddison.

"Because I wanted to see you, Master Dick. I've written, and you won't
answer; so I got Mr Pratt there to tell me where you were, and here I
am."

Richard stood frowning for a few moments; but there was something so
bright and frank in the face before him that a sunshiny look came in his
own, and he shook hands heartily.

"Come, sir, that does one good," cried Humphrey. "I _am_ glad I've
come."

"Well, I am glad to see you, Humphrey; but yet--"

"I know, sir--I know," said Humphrey. "I could tell you exactly what
you feel--a bit of envy-like; but there, bless your heart, if it wasn't
for Polly and the thoughts of her, I should be a miserable man."

"Well, you've got plenty to make you miserable," said Richard.

"Ah, you may smile, sir--I know what you mean; but I have, all the same.
I tell you, I was a deal happier man without the estate than I am with
it. Old Lloyd and Mrs Lloyd--begging your pardon for speaking so of
them--look sneering-like at me; so do the quality; hang them, they're
civil enough, but I can see them sneer. They look down on me, of
course. I'm not one of their sort. I'm ignorant, and can't talk to
them. I get on well enough with the young fellows, shooting, and so on;
but I always feel as if I ought to load their guns, and I can't help
saying `sir' to