could be torn away, and misery at least be not forced to assume the aspect of mirth. And Sir Digby was very miserable; oppressed with burning headache, and with spirits sunk to their lowest ebb. Another communication from his man of business in London had been but a sorry preparation for a day of pleasure, still less for a day of pain. The spendthrift had been reminded in forcible terms of the absolute necessity of curtailing expenses, and diminishing his establishment, even residence abroad had been hinted at, that the estate might be nursed for the next ten years. Sir Digby had indeed flung away the letter in a passion of rage, but he could not erase its contents from his mind, and strangely mingling with them came recollections of the fate of one whose sin-like his own—had been pride! Was-in his case also the goodly tree to be cut down, its branches laid in the dust, its fruit scattered afar! He had on that day been well-nigh crushed by an awful judgment, his only child destroyed by the monument of his presumption and pride! That judgment had indeed been averted, but the wreck of the Walhalla remained as a warning and a type. So shall perish all the pomps and vanities of the world, from the lofty tower of Belus, to the gay trifles which now engross the thoughts of beings born for immortality. Ah, reader, on what is your heart now set? Is it on that which will "stand the fire," on that which time cannot change, nor eternity itself destroy?

As if drawn by a strange attraction towards the Walhalla, the baronet bent his steps in the direction of the little mount which it had crowned so proudly in the morning. Several workmen and rustics were loitering about the ruins to gratify natural curiosity, exchanging coarse jests which it was well that the lord of the place did not hear. They slunk away on seeing Sir Digby, and left the darkbrowed, melancholy man to the seclusion which he sought.

Striking, indeed, was the contrast presented by the Walhalla when the sun's rays sloped from the west, to its appearance when his morning beams had glanced from the fairy structure! Part of the front

of the building was still standing, a spectral skeleton of its former self; but the concussion had shattered every pane in the windows, and through those eyeless holes, disfigured with fragments of coloured glass, the gaze rested on a chaos of confused wreck, wood, marble, plaster, portions of fresco, half hiding, halfrevealing the huge fragments of the colossal group, which had been broken by the height of its fall. One minute had done the work of ages-the desolation was complete!

Sir Digby gazed sternly for some time on the ruins, and then turned gloomily away. As he reached the bottom of the mount which was strewn with loose mortar, dust, and rubbish, he suddenly encountered Mr. Eardley, who was returning from

the Castle, and intending to visit the steward's cottage on his way.

The clergyman felt the meeting somewhat embarrassing. He had gone to Castle Lestrange with the view of seeing the unhappy Marion, who might be, he thought, at the point of death; he had learned that she was in a state of delirium, which would render all spiritual instruction useless. Grieving over

this poor wandering sheep suddenly arrested in her downward course by an accident so fearful, the burdened heart of the pastor was relieving itself by silent prayer, when he met Sir Digby Lestrange coming down from the scene of the disaster. Both stood still for a moment, and then the clergyman addressed Sir Digby not as the baronet, but the father.

"Allow me to congratulate you from my heart on the merciful preservation of your sweet little child."

Mr. Eardley spoke from the depth of his soul, and Sir Digby knew that he did so. Those few words went warm to a heart which had felt itself desolate and alone. The baronet held out his hand, and returned Mr. Eardley's grasp with kindly pressure. The proud spirit was so far humbled as to acknowledge to itself the need both of sympathy and of counsel.

"I came hither thinking that the poor servant girl who is a sufferer, might wish to see a clergyman," said Mr. Eardley, desirous to show that no intrusive curiosity had drawn him to the Castle.

"You are welcome," said the baronet gravely; "I hope that you will return to the Castle and rest?" These were the first words of kindness which the clergyman had ever heard from those haughty lips.

Who knows how the God in whose hand are all hearts, may be dealing with this soul!" thought the pastor, as he accepted the courteous invitation. "Oh, Thou from whom alone cometh wisdom, guide me so to speak, that a blessing may rest on my intercourse with one who may yet be led by Thy judgments or Thy mercies to walk in humility before Thee."

To the no small surprise of the household at the Castle, Mr. Eardley remained for two hours with the baronet in his study. Speculation was rife as to the cause of so unprecedented an occurrence. It was

with a sense of relief that the servants heard at last the sound of Sir Digby's bell. Valance, eager to get rid of a dangerous visitor, answered the summons with unusual alacrity.

"Mr. Eardley will remain to dinner. Desire Mullins to have the carriage ready to take him home at night," was the command given to the astonished butler by his master.

"The carriage for him!" exclaimed every voice, after Valance had repeated the message in the servants' hall.

"If once the parson get a footing here, our game's up!" exclaimed Ford. "If I were Mullins I'd manage somehow to overturn the carriage by the way!"

XXVII.

Disclosures.

ERY still was the chamber of sickness where one gentle watcher kept vigil beside a sufferer's bed. Marion had never fully

V

recovered her senses since the terrible accident; a few words of distress sometimes escaped her unconscious lips, and ever and anon a deep groan burst from the sufferer's lips, but the room was usually so quiet that Rebekah could count every tick of the large clock on the stairs, and each stroke on its bell when it tolled midnight, sounded almost painfully loud.

Rebekah sat there by the light of the shaded lamp, silent, thoughtful, but not unhappy. The prevailing feeling in her soul was gratitude, deep and overflowing. What a mercy she deemed it that it was not her husband who lay stretched on a bed of pain, that Robert had not been a sacrifice to his own brave self-devotion. But for him the Castle had now been the scene of hopeless mourning, but for him that poor crushed sufferer had never lived to repent. The God whom he had served had blessed him, had