ible indeed." And then, in a low tone, "How did it happen?"

"'Twas just this," says the old man, who is faithful, and has
understood for many years most of John Massereene's affairs, having
lived with him from boy to man; "'twas money that did it. He had
invested all he had, as it might be, and he lost it, and the shock went
to his heart and killed him. Poor soul! poor soul!"

"Disease of the heart. Who would have suspected it? And he has lost
all. Surely something remains?"

"Only a few hundreds, sir, as I hear,--nothing to signify,--for the
poor mistress and the wee bits. It is a fearful thing, sir, and bad to
think of. And there's Miss Molly, too. I never could abide them
spickilations, as they're called."

"Poor John Massereene!" says Luttrell, taking off his hat. "He meant no
harm to any one,--least of all to those who were nearest to his kindly
heart."

"Ay, ay, man and boy I knew him. He was always kind and true, was the
master,--with no two ways about him. When the letter came as told him
all was gone, and that only beggary was before him, he said nothing,
only went away to his study dazed like, an' read it, an' read it, and
then fell down heart-broken upon the floor. Dead he was--stone
dead--afore any of us came to him. The poor missis it was as found him
first."

"It is too horrible," says Luttrell, shuddering. He nods his head to
the old man and walks away from him down to the village inn, depressed
and saddened.

The gardener's news has been worse than even he anticipated. To be
bereft of their dearest is bad enough, but to be thrown penniless on
the mercies of the cold and cruel--nay, rather thoughtless--world is
surely an aggravation of their misery. Death at all times is a
calamity; but when it leaves the mourners without actual means of
support, how much sadder a thing it is! To know one's comforts shall
remain unimpaired after the loss of one's beloved is--in spite of all
indignant denial--a solace to the most mournful.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone--alone."

--Shelley.

Meantime, Molly, having listened vaguely and without interest, yet with
a curious intentness, to his parting footfalls, as the last one dies
away draws herself up and, with a sigh or two, moves instinctively
toward the door she had pointed out to Luttrell.

No one has told her, no hint