to think of Gregson's reclaimed soul as anything with
which he had had to do. It was now more than three months since Mr. Gray
had been at Hanbury Court. During all that time he had been confined to
his house, if not to his sick-bed, and he and my lady had never met since
their last discussion and difference about Farmer Hale's barn.

This was not my dear lady's fault; no one could have been more attentive
in every way to the slightest possible want of either of the invalids,
especially of Mr. Gray. And she would have gone to see him at his own
house, as she sent him word, but that her foot had slipped upon the
polished oak staircase, and her ancle had been sprained.

So we had never seen Mr. Gray since his illness, when one November day he
was announced as wishing to speak to my lady. She was sitting in her
room--the room in which I lay now pretty constantly--and I remember she
looked startled, when word was brought to her of Mr. Gray's being at the
Hall.

She could not go to him, she was too lame for that, so she bade him be
shown into where she sat.

"Such a day for him to go out!" she exclaimed, looking at the fog which
had crept up to the windows, and was sapping the little remaining life in
the brilliant Virginian creeper leaves that draperied the house on the
terrace side.

He came in white, trembling, his large eyes wild and dilated. He
hastened up to Lady Ludlow's chair, and, to my surprise, took one of her
hands and kissed it, without speaking, yet shaking all over.

"Mr. Gray!" said she, quickly, with sharp, tremulous apprehension of some
unknown evil. "What is it? There is something unusual about you."

"Something unusual has occurred," replied he, forcing his words to be
calm, as with a great effort. "A gentleman came to my house, not half an
hour ago--a Mr. Howard. He came straight from Vienna."

"My son!" said my dear lady, stretching out her arms in dumb questioning
attitude.

"The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the
Lord."

But my poor lady could not echo the words. He was the last remaining
child. And once she had been the joyful mother of nine.

CHAPTER XII.

I am ashamed to say what feeling became strongest in my mind about this
time; next to the sympathy we all of us felt for my dear lady in her deep
sorrow, I mean; for that was greater and stronger than anything else,
however contradictory you may think it, when you hear all.

It might