L.

Assistance was soon procured, and Sir Oswald was carried to his room;
Doctor Helmstone was sent for, and when he arrived the whole house was
in confusion. Lady Darrell wrung her hands in the most graceful
distress.

"Now, Elinor," said Lady Hampton, "pray do not give way to anything of
that kind. It is a fortunate thing for you that I am here. Let me beg of
you to remember that, whatever happens, you are magnificently provided
for, Sir Oswald told me as much. There is really no need to excite
yourself in that fashion."

While Lady Darrell, with a few graceful exclamations and a very pretty
show of sorrow, managed to attract all possible sympathy, Pauline moved
about with a still, cold face, which those best understood who knew her
nature. It seemed incredible to the girl that anything unexpected should
happen to her uncle. She had only just begun to love him; that evening
had brought those two proud hearts closer together than they had ever
been; the ice was broken; each had a glimmering perception of the real
character of the other--a perception that in time would have developed
into perfect love. It seemed too hard that after he had just begun to
like her--that as soon as a fresh and genuine sentiment was springing up
between them--he must die.

For it had come to that. Care, skill, talent, watching, were all in
vain; he must die. Grave-faced doctors had consulted about him, and with
professional keenness had seen at once that his case was hopeless. The
ailment was a sudden and dangerous one--violent inflammation of the
lungs. No one could account for the sudden seizure. Sir Oswald had
complained of pain during the day, but no one thought that it was
anything of a serious nature. His manner, certainly, had been strange,
with a sad pathos quite unlike himself; but no one saw in that the
commencement of a mortal illness.

Lady Hampton frequently observed how fortunate it was that she was
there. To all inquiries as to the health of her niece, she replied,
"Poor, dear Lady Darrell is bearing up wonderfully;" and with the help
of pathetic little speeches, the frequent use of a vinaigrette, a few
tears, and some amiable self-condolence, that lady did bear up.

Strange to say, the one who felt the keenest sorrow, the deepest regret,
the truest pain, was the niece with whom Sir Oswald had continually
found fault, and whom he had disinherited. She went about with a sorrow
on her face more eloquent than words. Lady