Luxembourg Gardens before beginning my day's work.

There the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed and
acacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among the
boughs, set me longing for a holiday. I thought of Saxonholme, and the
sweet English woodlands round about. I thought how pleasant it would be
to go home to dear Old England, if only for ten days, and surprise my
father in his quiet study. What if I asked Dr. Cheron to spare me for a
fortnight?

Turning these things over in my mind, I left the gardens, and, arriving
presently at the well-known Porte Cochere in the Rue de Mont Parnasse,
rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seat
at my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual.

"If you please, Monsieur," said the solemn servant, making his
appearance at the door, "Monsieur le Docteur requests your presence in
his private room."

I went. Dr. Cheron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to the
fire, and his arms folded over his breast. An open letter, bordered
broadly with black, lay upon his desk. Although distant some two yards
from the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. When I came in he
looked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent.

"Basil Arbuthnot," he said, after a pause of some minutes, "I have this
morning received a letter from England, by the early post."

"From my father, sir?"

"No. From a stranger,"

He looked straight at me as he said this, and hesitated.

"But it contains news," he added, "that--that much concerns you."

There was a fixed gravity about the lines of his handsome mouth, and an
unwonted embarrassment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension.

"Good news, I--I hope, sir," I faltered.

"Bad news, my young friend," said he, compassionately. "News that you
must meet like a man, with fortitude--with resignation. Your
father--your excellent father--my honored friend--"

He pointed to the letter and turned away.

I rose up, sat down, rose up again, reached out a trembling hand for the
letter, and read the loss that my heart had already presaged.

My father was dead.

Well as ever in the morning, he had been struck with apoplexy in the
afternoon, and died in a few hours, apparently without pain.

The letter was written by our old family lawyer, and concluded with the
request that Dr. Cheron would "break the melancholy news to Mr. Basil
Arbuthnot,