emed to consider himself. But he used to talk
of future for his sisters, and sometimes in his more cheerful moods,
would picture to himself what he would do when he should be a man, and
able to shelter them in a home, however humble, of his own. His whole
soul was wrapped up in these girls."

"Did you ever hear what became of them?"

"Three died of consumption, I have been told, just as they were opening
into the bloom of early womanhood, almost the loveliest creatures that
ever were seen."

"And the fourth."

"She was the most beautiful of all--a fine, high-spirited, dashing
creature. Her brother's secret terror and darling."

"Well!"

"She followed her mother's example, and died miserably at the age of
two-and-twenty."

"What can we do for this man?" cried Catherine, when she had recovered
voice a little. "Edgar, what can we do for this man?"

"Your first question, dear girl--always your first question--what can be
done?" Ever, my love, may you preserve that precious habit. My Catherine
never sits down lamenting, and wringing her hands helplessly about other
people's sorrows. The first thing she asks, is, "what _can be done_."

CHAPTER IX.

Strongest minds
Are often those of whom the noisy world
Hears least; else surely this man had not left
His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed.

Wordsworth.

The first thing to be done, it was obvious to all parties, was for Edgar
to go and call upon Mr. St. Leger, which he did.

He found him occupying one very small room, which served him for bed and
sitting room, in a small cottage upon the outskirts of the little
secluded town of Briarwood. He looked extremely ill; his beautiful
countenance was preternaturally pale; his large eyes far too bright and
large; his form attenuated; and his voice so faint, husky, and low that
it was with difficulty he could make himself heard, at least for any
length of time together.

The expression of his countenance, however, was rather grave than sad;
resigned than melancholy. He was serious but perfectly composed; nay,
there was even a chastened cheerfulness in his manner. He looked like
one who had accepted the cup presented to him; had already exhausted
most of the bitter potion, and was calmly prepared to drain it to the
dregs.

And so it had been.

No man was ever more exquisitely constituted to suffer from
circumstances so agonizing than he. But his