and gone, leaving but a solitary elm and a barn to keep his name and his wrongs in the memory of

man.

The estate was left to the eldest of his four daughters, who married the handsome and fascinating, but utterly unprincipled, Lord Ballyroundtower. In eleven years he had gambled away the whole of her forty thousand a year, principal, country houses, timber, everything but the bare land; and left her a penniless, broken-hearted woman, dependent on her three sisters.

Silcote's father acted as an honest and highminded man from beginning to end of this miserable business. He used his influence with Sir George to prevent the match from being thought of; and after Sir George's sudden death he tried all he could to stay her infatuation for one of the most worthless men that ever lived. He prayed her to have, at least, some settlement made, but in vain. She proudly insisted on trusting the earl, and the result is well known. In eleven years her halfmillion of money gone, and she dying, in hiding, in the arms of her sister, in mortal terror lest her brutal

husband should discover her retreat, and renew his cruelties, even on her deathbed.

Old Silcote was none the richer for all this ruin. He loved the family and the property, and was probably the only honest man of business which the earl saw in those wild ten years. His wealth was fairly come by.

The fate of the other three sisters was much more fortunate. Old Silcote had induced Sir George Denby to provide for them handsomely and independently, and so they found themselves, after their sister's death and ruin, comfortably off, with nearly thirty thousand pounds a-piece; but getting towards old maidenhood. They were very quiet little ladies, quite as good, quite as gentle, as that most unfortunate and ill-used lady, their sister, but a little more wise. The youngest of them married a clergyman of great eminence and piety, but sickly; they had one little girl, who became heir to all their property.

She was very carefully brought up, both before her father's death, and afterwards. She turned out to be very pretty, gentle, and amiable; but not

clever. Indeed, as time went on, her extreme simplicity of character gave their old friend Silcote great anxiety, and caused him to glance thoughtfully at his handsome young son Harry, as if thinking whether or no he would not make a better guardian of the ninety thousand pounds than the almost vacuous Laura Denby.

It was the most natural arrangement in the world, and it was brought about very easily. For many years Henry Silcote's father had been the intimate friend and adviser of the Miss Denbys; Henry had been in and out of the house as if it had belonged to him. Accordingly, just when he was called to the bar, when he was twenty-four and she nineteen, he announced that he had fallen in love with her. He spoke to the old people on the subject. A certain Sir Godfrey Mallory, who had been hitherto very much encouraged by the old ladies, now got his congé, and Henry Silcote took his place. He was clever, pushing, gentlemanly, rich; no spendthrift, but hard at work as a barrister, and, with his introductions to the profession, absolutely certain to succeed. They were married.

Even at this time, those who recollect him say that there was a frown upon his face, which, after his great misfortune, darkened into a scowl, which settled so permanently there that it appeared nothing could remove it. Even at that early time they say that it was a suspicious and watchful face, though very handsome.

They had a boy born, Algernon; and it was not very long before the three old ladies dropped off, leaving her her alone in the world with Henry

Silcote.

Her health was never good after her confinement, and after a long time, during which they lived perfectly happy, he consented to her going to Italy in company with his sister, the Princess, and a certain old Miss Raylock, a novelist, he waiting until term was over to join her. He went to meet her, and fetched her back. His manner towards her had entirely changed, and the expression of his face had grown very dark. Old friends saw, with infinite pity and concern, this poor, weak, delicately-nurtured lady, in her relations with her husband. He was so terribly, inexorably stern with her, and she looked at him so pitifully.

Things got worse and worse between them, and at last one of the few friends whom he allowed her to see declared that her reason would soon be unsettled. Things went on from bad to worse. At last a catastrophe came. Her sister and his wife were both with him at Exeter in the autumn, after their return from Italy. It is also absolutely certain that Sir Godfrey Mallory was there also; as was also his sister's majordomo, courier, and friend, one Kreigsthurm.

At Exeter Silcote was defending a young sailor, who was charged with stabbing a Jew crimp. Silcote had been as brilliant as ever up to the time of the opening of his case, which was the last time any of his friends had speech of him. The case was interesting, and Silcote more splendid than he had ever been before.

He won his case, to every one's surprise. The terrified, deer-eyed sailor lad, who had kept those eyes fixed on Silcote all the morning, gave a gasp of relief at the astonishing effect of his counsel's eloquence. The judge, who had very properly summed up dead against the prisoner, looked at the jury as if admiration for that bulwark of our national liberties was not, at that moment, the prevailing sentiment of his mind.