the
rub-a-dub-dub of the drum arose, and the thrilling blare of trumpet;
the great deep of the night was heaved and broken with the stir of human
storm; and the staunchest and strongest piece of earth--our England--was
ready to defend herself.

CHAPTER LXII

THE WAY OUT OF IT

"My father! my father! I must see my father. Who are you, that dare to
keep me out? Let me know the worst, and try to bear it. What are any of
you to him?"

"But, my dear child," Lord Southdown answered, holding the door against
poor Faith, as she strove to enter the room of death, "wait just one
minute, until we have lifted him to the sofa, and let us bring your poor
sister out."

"I have no sister. She has killed my father, and the best thing she can
do is to die. I feel that I could shoot her, if I had a pistol. Let me
see him, where he lies."

"But, my poor dear, you must think of others. Your dear father is beyond
all help. Your gallant lover lies on the grass. They hope to bring him
round, God willing! Go where you can be of use."

"How cruel you are! You must want to drive me mad. Let his father and
mother see to him, while I see to my own father. If you had a daughter,
you would understand. Am I crying? Do I even tremble?"

The Marquis offered his arm, and she took it in fear of falling, though
she did not tremble; so he led her to her father's last repose. The poor
Admiral lay by the open window, with his head upon a stool which Faith
had worked. The ghastly wound was in his broad smooth forehead, and his
fair round cheeks were white with death. But the heart had not quite
ceased to beat, and some remnant of the mind still hovered somewhere
in the lacerated brain. Stubbard, sobbing like a child, was lifting
and clumsily chafing one numb hand; while his wife, who had sponged the
wound, was making the white curls wave with a fan she had shaped from a
long official paper found upon the floor.

Dolly was recovering from her swoon, and sat upon a stool by the
bookcase, faintly wondering what had happened, but afraid to ask or
think. The corner of the bookcase, and the burly form of Stubbard,
concealed the window from her, and the torpid oppression which ensues
upon a fit lay between her and her agony. Faith, as she passed, darted
one glance at her, not of pity, not of love, but of cold contempt and
satisfaction at her misery.

Then Faith, the quiet and gentle maid, the tranquil and the
self-controlled (whom every one had c