o not go
yourself;" his wife had said to him. That the rector of Clavering was
master of himself and of his own actions, no one who knew the family
ever denied, but the instances in which he declined to follow his wife's
advice were not many.

It was about eight o'clock when he went across the park. He had already
sent a messenger with a note to beg that Lady Clavering would be up to
receive him. As he would come very early, he had said, perhaps she would
see him in her own room. The poor lady had, of course, been greatly
frightened by this announcement; but this fear had been good for her, as
they had well understood at the rectory; the blow, dreadfully sudden as
it must still be, would be somewhat less sudden under this preparation.
When Mr. Clavering reached the house the servant was in waiting to show
him up stairs to the sitting-room which Lady Clavering usually occupied
when alone. She had been there waiting for him for the last half hour.
"Mr. Clavering, what is it?" she exclaimed, as he entered with tidings
of death written on his visage. "In the name of heaven, what is it? You
have something to tell me of Hugh."

"Dear Hermione," he said, taking her by the hand.

"What is it? Tell me at once. Is he still alive?"

The rector still held her by the hand, but spoke no word. He had been
trying as he came across the park to arrange the words in which he
should tell his tale, but now it was told without any speech on his
part.

"He is dead. Why do you not speak? Why are you so cruel?"

"Dearest Hermione, what am I to say to comfort you?"

What he might say after this was of little moment, for she had fainted.
He rang the bell, and then, when the servants were there--the old
housekeeper and Lady Clavering's maid--he told to them, rather than to
her, what had been their master's fate.

"And Captain Archie?" asked the housekeeper.

The rector shook his head, and the housekeeper knew that the rector was
now the baronet. Then they took the poor widow to her own room--should I
not rather call her, as I may venture to speak the truth, the
enfranchised slave than the poor widow--and the rector, taking up his
hat, promised that he would send his wife across to their mistress. His
morning's task had been painful, but it had been easily accomplished. As
he walked home among the oaks of Clavering Park, he told himself; no
doubt, that they were now all his own.

That day at the rectory was very sombre, if it was not ac