growing bright but uncertain. Tell Grainger to see to it. My father spoke about it again only yesterday. The upper pastures are fresher-greener

His voice breaks; with a groan he sinks back again upon his pillow.

'Mona, are you still there?' he says with a return to consciousness. 'Did I dream, or did my father speak to me? How the night comes on!' He sighs wearily. I am so tired-so worn out; if I could only sleep!' he murmurs faintly.

Alas! how soon will fall upon him that eternal sleep from which no man waketh!

His breath grows fainter, his eyelids close.

Some one comes in with a lamp, and places it on a distant table, where its rays cannot distress the dying

man.

Dr. Bland coming into the room goes to the bedside, and feels his pulse, and tries to put something between his lips, but he refuses to take anything.

'It will strengthen you,' he says persuasively.

'No, it is no use; it only wearies me. My best medicine, my only medicine, is here,' returns Paul, feebly pressing Mona's hand. He is answering the doctor, but he does not look at him. As he speaks his gaze is rivetted upon Mona.

Dr. Bland, putting down the glass, forbears to torment him further, and moves away. Geoffrey, who has also come in, takes his place. Bending over the dying man he touches him lightly on the shoulder.

Paul turns his head, and as he sees Geoffrey a quick spasm that betrays fear crosses his face.

'Do not take her away yet-not yet,' he says in a faint whisper.

'No, no. She will stay,' says Geoffrey hurriedly; I only want to tell you, my dear fellow, how grieved I am for you, and how gladly I would undo many things, if I could.'

The other smiles faintly. He is evidently glad because of Geoffrey's words, but speech is now very nearly impossible to him. His attempt to rise, to point out the imaginary moonlight to Mona, has greatly wasted his small remaining stock of life, and now but a thin partition, frail and broken, lies between him and that inexorable Rubicon we all must one day pass.

Then he turns his head away again to let his eyes rest on Mona, as though nowhere else can peace or comfort be found.

Geoffrey, moving to one side, stands where he can no longer be seen, feeling instinctively that the ebbing life before him finds its sole consolation in the thought of Mona. She is all he desires. From her he gains courage to face the coming awful moment, when he shall have to clasp the hand of Death, and go forth with him to meet the Great Unknown.

Presently he closes his fingers upon hers, and looking up she sees his lips are moving, though no sound escapes them. Leaning over him, she bends her face to his and whispers softly:

'What is it?'

It is nearly over,' he gasps painfully. 'Say goodbye to me. Do not quite forget me-not utterly. Give me some small place in your memory-thoughso unworthy.'

'I shall not forget-I shall always remember,' returns she, the tears running down her cheeks; and then through divine pity, and perhaps because Geoffrey is here to see her, she stoops and lays her lips upon his forehead.

Never afterwards will she forget the glance of gratitude that meets hers, and that lights up all his face, even his dim eyes, as she grants him this gentle pitiful

caress.

'Pray for me,' he says.

And then she falls upon her knees again, and Geoffrey in the background, though unseen, kneels too;

and Mona in a broken voice, because she is crying very bitterly now, whispers some words of comfort for the dying.

The minutes go by slowly, slowly; some clock from some distant steeple chimes the hour. The soft pattering of rain upon the walk outside, and now upon the window-pane, is all the sound that can be heard.

In the death-chamber silence reigns. No one moves; their very breathing seems hushed. Paul Rodney's eyes are closed. No faintest movement disturbs the slumber into which he seems to have fallen.

Thus half an hour goes by. Then Geoffrey growing uneasy raises his head and looks at Mona. From where he sits the bed is hidden from him, but he can see that she is still kneeling beside it, her hand in Rodney's, her face hidden in the bedclothes.

The doctor at this instant returns to the room, and going on tiptoe (as though fearful of disturbing the sleeper) to where Mona is kneeling, looks anxiously at Rodney. But, alas! no sound of earth will evermore disturb the slumber of the quiet figure upon which he gazes.

The doctor, after a short examination of the features (that are even now turning to marble), knits his brows, and going over to Geoffrey, whispers something into his ear while pointing to Mona.

'At once,' he says with emphasis.

Geoffrey starts. He walks quickly up to Mona, and stooping over her, very gently loosens her hand from the other hand she is holding. Passing his arm round her neck, he turns her face deliberately in his own direction -as though to keep her eyes from resting on the bedand lays it upon his own breast.

'Come,' he says gently.

'Oh, not yet!' entreats faithful Mona in a miserable tone-not yet! Remember what I said. I promised to remain with him until the very end.'

'You have kept your promise,' returns he solemnly, pressing her face still closer against his chest.

A strong shudder runs through her frame; she grows a little heavier in his embrace. Seeing she has fainted, he lifts her in his arms and carries her out of the

room.

Later on, when they open the paper that had been given by the dead man into the keeping of Dr. Bland, and which proved to be his will, duly signed and witnessed by the gamekeeper and his son, they find he has left to Mona all of which he died possessed. It amounts to about two thousand a year; of which one thousand is to come to her at once, the other on the death of his mother.

To Ridgway, the under gardener, he willed three hundred pounds, as some small compensation for the evil done to him;' so runs the document, written in a distinct but trembling hand. And then follow one or two bequests to those friends he had left in Australia, and some to the few from whom he had received kindness in colder England.

No one is forgotten by him. Though once he is dead and laid in grave,' he is forgotten by most.

They put him to rest in the family vault where his ancestors lie side by side-as Mona promised him— and write Sir Paul Rodney over his head, giving him in death the title they would gladly have withheld from him in life.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

HOW MONA DEFENDS THE DEAD-AND HOW LADY LILIAS EATON WAXES ELOQUENT.

As hour follows upon hour, even the most poignant griefs grow less. Nature sooner or later will come to the rescue, and hope springing eternal' will cast despair into the background. Paul Rodney's death being rather more a shock than a grief to the inmates of the Towers, the remembrance of it fades from their minds with a rapidity that astonishes even themselves.

Mona, as is only natural, clings longest to the memory of that terrible day when grief and gladness had been so closely blended, when tragedy followed so fast upon their comedy, that laughter and tears embraced each other, and gloom overpowered their sunshine. Yet even she brightens up, and is quite herself again by the time the merry month of May' comes showering down upon them all its wealth of blossom, and music of glad birds, as they chant in glade and dell.

Yet in her heart the erring cousin is not altogether forgotten. There are moments in every day when she recalls him to her mind, nor does she ever pass the huge tomb where his body lies at rest, awaiting the last trump, without a kindly thought of him, and a hope that his soul is safe in heaven.

The county has behaved on the occasion somewhat disgracefully, and has declared itself to a man-without any reservation-unfeignedly glad of the chance that has restored Sir Nicholas to his own again. Perhaps what they just do not say is, that they are delighted