In the long dark old room with the mullioned windows looking ont on the ocean, in the room that had been Charles’s bedroom, study, and play-room, since he was a boy, there sat Charles Ravenshoe, musing, stricken down with grief, and forlorn.

There were the fishing rods and the guns, there were the books and the homely pictures in which his soul had delighted. There was “The Sanctuary and the Challenge,” and Bob Coombes in his outrigger. All were there. But Charles Ravenshoe was not there. There was another man in his place, bearing his likeness, who sat and brooded with his head on his hands.

Where was the soul which was gone? Was he an infant in a new cycle of existence? or was he still connected with the scenes and people he had known and loved so long? Was he present? Could he tell at last the deep love that one poor foolish heart had borne for him? Could he know now the deep, deep grief that tore that poor silly heart, because its owner had not been by to see the last faint smile of intelligence flutter over features that he was to see no more?”

“Father! Father 1 Where are you. Don’t leave me ll alone, father.” No answer! only the ceaseless heating of the surf upon the shore.

He opened the window, and looked out. The terrace, the woods, the village, and beyond the great unmeasureable ocean! What beyond that?

What was this death, which suddenly made that which we loved so well, so worthless? Could they none of them tell us? One there was who triumphed over death and the grave, and was caught up in His earthly body. Who is this Death that he should triumph over us? Alas, poor Charles! There are evils worse than death. There are times when death seems to a man like going to bed. Wait!

There was a picture of Mary’s, of which he bethought himself. One we all know. Of a soul being carried away by angels to heaven. They call it St. Catherine, though it had nothing particular to do with St. Catherine, that I know of; and he thought he would go see it. But, as he turned, there stood Mary herself before him.

He held out his hands towards her, and she came and sat beside him, and put her arm round his neck. He kissed her! Why not? They were as brother and sister.

He asked her why she had come.

“I knew you wanted me,” she said.

Then she, still with her arm round his neck, talked to him about what had just happened. “He asked for you soon after he was taken on the first day, and told Father Mackworth to send off for you. Cuthbert had ent two hours before, and he said he was glad, and hoped that Oxford would win the race ”

“Charles,” said Mary again, “do you know that old James has had a fit, and is not expected to live?”

“No.”

“Yes, as soon as he heard of our dear one’s death he was taken. It has killed him.”

“Poor old James!”

They sat there some time, hand in hand, in sorrowful communion, and then Charles said suddenly —

“The future, Mary? The future, my love?”

“We discussed that before, Charles, dear. There is only one line of life open to me.”

“Ah!”

“I shall write to Lady Ascot tomorrow. I heard from Adelaide the other day, and she tells me that young Lady Hainault is going to take charge of poor Lord Charles’s children in a short time; and she will want a nursery governess; and I will go.”

“I would sooner you were there than here, Mary. I am very glad of this. She is a very good woman. I will go and see you there very often.”

“Are you going back to Oxford, Charles?”

“I think not”

“Do you owe much money there?”

“Very little, now. He paid it almost all for me.”

“What shall you do 1 ”

“I have not the remotest idea. I cannot possibly con’ ceive. I must consult Marston.”

There passed a weary week — a week of long brooding days and sleepless nights, while outside the darkened house the bright spring sun flooded all earth with light and life, and the full spring wind sang pleasantly through the musical woods, and swept away inland over heather and crag.

Strange sounds began to reach Charles in his solitary chamber; sounds which at first made him fancy he was dreaming, they were so mysterious and inexplicable. The first day they assumed the forms of solitary notes of music, some almost harsh, and some exquisitely soft and melodious. As the day went on they began to arrange themselves into chords, and sound slightly louder, though still a long way off. At last, near midnight, they seemed to take form, and flow off into a wild, mournful piece of music, the like of which Charles had never heard before; and then all was still.

Charles went to bed, believing either that the sounds were supernatural or that they arose from noises in his head. He came to the latter conclusion, and thought sleep would put an end to them; but, next morning, when he had half opened the shutters, and let in the blessed sunlight, there came the sound again — a wild, rich, triumphant melody, played by some hand, whether earthly or unearthly, that knew its work well.

“What is that, William?”

“Music.”

“Where does it come from?”

“Out of the air. The rjixies make such music at imes. Maybe it’s the saints in glory with their golden harps, welcoming Master and Father.”

“Father!”

“He died this morning at daybreak; not long after his old master, eh? He was very faithful to him. He was in prison with him once, I’ve heard tell. I’ll be as faithful to you, Charles, when the time comes.”

And another day wore on in the darkened house, and still the angelic music rose and fell at intervals, and moved the hearts of those that heard it strangely.

“Surely,” said Charles to himself, “that music must sound louder in one place than another.”, And then he felt himself smiling at the idea that he half believed it to be supernatural.

He rose and passed on through corridor and gallery, still listening as he went. The music had ceased, and all was still.

He went on through parts of the house he had not been in since a............