r father's death was
not natural."

Such was the end of William Pitt Ferrars, on whom nature, opportunity,
and culture appeared to have showered every advantage. His abilities
were considerable, his ambition greater. Though intensely worldly, he
was not devoid of affections. He found refuge in suicide, as many do,
from want of imagination. The present was too hard for him, and his
future was only a chaotic nebula.

Endymion did not see his sister that evening. She was not made aware
of his arrival, and was alone with Mrs. Penruddock, who never left her
night or day. The rector took charge of her brother, and had a sofa-bed
made for him in the kind man's room. He was never to be alone. Never
the whole night did Endymion close his eyes; and he was almost as much
agitated about the impending interview with Myra, as about the dark
event of terror that had been disclosed to him.

Yet that dreaded interview must take place; and, about noon, the rector
told him that Myra was in the drawing-room alone, and would receive him.
He tottered as he crossed the hall; grief and physical exhaustion had
unmanned him; his eyes were streaming with tears; he paused for a moment
with his hand upon the door; he dreaded the anguish of her countenance.

She advanced and embraced him with tenderness; her face was grave, and
not a tear even glistened.

"I have been living in a tragedy for years," said Myra, in a low, hollow
voice; "and the catastrophe has now arrived."

"Oh, my dear father!" exclaimed Endymion; and he burst into a renewed
paroxysm of grief.

"Yes; he was dear to us, and we were dear to him," said Myra; "but the
curtain has fallen. We have to exert ourselves. Energy and self-control
were never more necessary to two human beings than to us. Here are his
keys; his papers must be examined by no one but ourselves. There is a
terrible ceremony taking place, or impending. When it is all over, we
must visit the hall at least once more."

The whole neighbourhood was full of sorrow for the event, and of
sympathy for those bereft. It was universally agreed that Mr. Ferrars
had never recovered the death of his wife; had never been the same man
after it; had become distrait, absent, wandering in his mind, and the
victim of an invincible melancholy. Several instances were given of his
inability to manage his affairs. The jury, with Farmer Thornberry for
foreman, hesitated not in giving a becoming verdict. In those days
information tr