"Permit me to express my sorrow at seeing your Lordship in such deep mourning; several of your relations being among my friends, may I venture without offence to inquire if the deceased was among the number?”

"My dear Elliott, you astonish me; is it possible that the news has not reached even thus far? We have indeed kept this matter quiet, and it is well. Sir Gilbert Gascoigne has slept with his ancestors for seventeen

days."

"Sir Gilbert dead! I never even heard of his illness; he appeared to me a strong, healthy man, and, comparatively speaking, very young; bless me, he could not have been more than five-and-forty at the outside."

"He died a violent death at my hands, Mr. Elliott."

Elliott bounded from his chair and capsized his goblet, then quietly reseated himself and waited further information. So Lord Edgar had to relate his story once more.

"I always thought he would end his days in a violent manner; but grieve that it should have fallen to your lot. However there was no help for it, and there's an end of it."

Rather a cool way these gentlemen had in those days of disposing of people, to spit a friend, or send a bullet through him some fine

morning before breakfast gave an appetite; sherry and bitters was not required then as an appetizing tonic.

Well, to make a long story short, Lord Edgar took his niece back with him to the Castle, and immediately set about making arrangements for closing that establishment.

Lady Ruth and her daughter went to Overdon, to stay. There was more life there, and besides everything at their own home was at sixes and sevens. Lord Edgar was busy shifting things belonging to his sister and niece, and packing them off to Merry Elms, while the ladies themselves prepared for their voyage up the Mediterranean, which voyage was now near at hand.

A fine brig was preparing for sea, bound to Genoa from a Scottish port, and in her our friends were to embark.

Poor Overdon was in great trouble now himself; his family had long since grieved and mourned for Harold as lost to them. The father had held out hopes until hope died even within him. No news of the Brilliant' had reached the Admiralty; the powers that be had given her up. This was a great blow to the Squire. He had not calculated upon such an eventuality, and so it came upon him with redoubled force, but in spite of all he strangely persisted in keeping up a sort of latent trust in improbabi

lities, and so had ordered and got ready grand suits of full and half-dress lieutenant's uniform. Seizing the projected departure of Lord Edgar and his party for the Mediterranean as an opportunity, he entrusted this baggage to his Lordship's care, and permitted this simple incidence to revive hope. It is strange how man can persist in hugging hope to his bosom, but so it is, even against calm reason and often " common sense."

CHAPTER XIX.

EVERYTHING was now prepared for the departure, and the eve of it arrived. With ladies in getting underweigh there are a thousand-andone little things thought of at the last moment. This is looked upon very much as a matter of course, but somehow here was an exception. Edgar Galbraith's forethought had been grandly successful. Nothing was left to be wished for, but then no one can leave kind and good friends without bidding "farewell."

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever fare thee well!

Red eyes and pale faces we expect, and if we can, why, we steel our hearts against such weakness; still, there is a something touching about it. We sit around our friends' table, and thought is busy in speculation. This may be the last time that all will meet, and there is a fearful probability that such will be the case. We all know that the old must die, then the young may, and on these occasions we linger over each part of speech, although it comes up indistinctly and with great labour. It is not

by any means a jolly affair that last feast. There are eyes that glisten, voices that falter in bestowing blessings, and hands that tremulously offer keepsakes. All these things must, thank goodness, come to an end.

We could linger fondly over this part of our subject, and swell our volume immensely, but such is not our purpose. We stick pertinaciously to our text, and so, here goes. Passing over tears, the last embrace, the hearty shake of the hand, we arrive at the seaport town, and find Lady Ruth and her daughter under the care of Edgar Galbraith, bag and baggage, alongside of the dashing little clipper-brig 'Glenelg,' under the command of honest old John Bond. Lord Edgar had secured the entire cuddy for the use of himself and friends. He paid handsomely, and so ensured any amount of politeness and attention. Captain Bond was rather overwhelmed, too, by titles. He stared at a real lord as a natural curiosity, and a titled lady as very little below an angel. We cannot say how far that extended to her Ladyship's daughter.

Captain Bond met his passengers at the gangway with his hat in his hand, and kept salaaming and bowing like a mandarin in a teashop, much to the annoyance of the little party, who wished matters to progress quietly, just the same as though they were not on board. So, as soon as