mes from the Duke of
Agecombe. Oh," said he, with a great effort to appear as calm and
unmoved as possible, "I see what it is, they have given me India!"

"India!" exclaimed she, in amazement.

"I mean, my dear Princess, they have given me the Governor-Generalship."

"Which, of course, you would not accept."

"Why not, pray?"

"India!" It is banishment, barbarism, isolation from all that really
interests or embellishes existence,--a despotism that is wanting in the
only element which gives a despot dignity, that he founds or strengthens
a dynasty."

"No, no, charming Princess," said he, smiling; "it is a very glorious
sovereignty, with unlimited resources and--a very handsome stipend."

"Which, therefore, you do not decline," said she, with a very peculiar
smile.

"With your companionship, I should call it a paradise," said he.

"And without such?"

"Such a sacrifice as one must never shrink from at the call of duty,"
said he, bowing profoundly.

The Princess dined that day with the Countess of Glencore, and Sir
Horace Upton journeyed towards England.

CHAPTER LIV. THE END

Tears have gone over, and once more--it is for the last time--we come
back to the old castle in the West, beside the estuary of the Killeries.
Neglect and ruin have made heavy inroads on it. The battlements of
the great tower have fallen. Of the windows, the stormy winds of the
Atlantic have left only the stone mullions. The terrace is cumbered with
loose stones and fallen masonry. Not a trace of the garden remains, save
in the chance presence of some flowering plant or shrub, half-choked
by weeds, and wearing out a sad existence in uncared-for solitude. The
entrance-gate is closely barred and fastened, but a low portal, in
a side wing, lies open, entering by which we can view the dreary
desolation within. The apartments once inhabited by Lord Glencore are
all dismantled and empty. The wind and the rain sweep at will along the
vaulted corridors and through the deep-arched chambers. Of the damp,
discolored walls and ceilings, large patches litter the floors with
fragments of stucco and carved architraves.

One small chamber, on the ground-floor, maintains a habitable aspect.
Here a bed and a few articles of furniture, some kitchen utensils and
a little bookshelf, all neatly and orderly arranged, show that some one
calls this a home! Sad and lonely enough is it! Not a sound to break
the weary stillness, save the deep roar of the h