occurrence was distasteful to him; he had not contemplated being asked to remain with corpses when he entered upon his situation; but, on the other hand, he felt that the bond between himself and his master had been somehow strengthened by this unpleasant event. He was conscious that he had been discreet, and that his discretion had not escaped Ralph Pennicuick's observation. Very few things that concerned that gentleman did

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ALONE IN THE WORLD.

THOUGH рoor Nelly's home was left desolate on that terrible day, it was not deserted. Mrs. Wardlaw left her home and the husband from whom she had never been separated for a quarter of a century, to take up her quarters for the night with the orphaned girl.

'You have got a mother yet, my darling,' she whispered fondly in her ear, if you would only let it be so.'

But for the time Nelly was hardly sensible of her kindness. She had lost father, mother, and all that belonged to her, and seemed to herself utterly alone in the world. If Raymond had been her accepted lover, and could have come down in person to give his loving sympathy, it would just then have hardly availed her, though the consciousness that he was hers would without doubt have been an unspeakable comfort; but, as it was, it was forbidden her even to think of him. There was no green spot in all the desert of Life that lay before her on which to fix her eyes. She was unhappy before, and full of apprehension for the future, but far worse had befallen her than she had dreamed of. 'I was not in safety, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came,' were the words of Scripture that seemed to her to have the most proper application to herself; its promises and recommendations to be of good cheer, were not for her. Even the excellent woman who had come to sustain her in her tribulation failed in her errand of mercy. There was no faculty of consolation in her; for sympathy -except so far as pity and kindliness went-was wanting. She had never so much as seen Captain Conway, and only knew of him as a man who had been estranged from his family, partly by his own act; it was impossible for her to understand the bond that, stretching across the globe, had united father and daughter of late years so nearly. Her knowledge of Mrs. Conway had been more personal, but it had only made her acquainted with the poor woman's faults and follies; and Nelly could not but be aware of this. She had herself been acquainted with them, but also with

the love and tenderness that lay at the root of her mother's character, and which were hidden from Mrs. Wardlaw as from the rest of the world, and she resented the fact that this kind friend had been, although by necessity, thus ignorant of her mother's virtues. How could she understand the greatness of her sorrow, who did not understand the greatness of her loss? Nelly was very sensible, however, of her good intentions, nor did her common sense so far desert her in her wretchedness as to cause her to fail to recognise the rarity as well as the value of such a friendship. Words of gratitude, steeped in tears, were not wanting to her, and she did also what she could in the shape of acknowledgment by giving way to her friend's wishes in various material particulars. If she had had her own way, she would have gone up to town at once, and kept companionship with all that remained of her poor mother till it was committed to the grave; but she suffered herself to be overruled in this particular.

You surely believe me, Nelly,' Mrs. Wardlaw had reasoned, 'when I say that your dear mother is dead, and can derive no possible solace from your presence.'

I know you got the telegram-but,' added she with sad significance, one cannot always believe telegrams.'

6

My darling, Raymond has been,' returned the other softly. 'He followed his message to our house in person; only he told my husband not to tell you unless you inquired; he is not one of those to parade his kindness, and, besides, it really seems as though-

'I understand,' put in Nelly gravely. What did he tell Mr. Wardlaw? Let me know all.'

'Well, darling, he told him enough to make me sure that it would only shock you to-to do what you propose. It is better to remember your poor mother as you saw her last.'

There was a long pause, during which Nelly shed those tears whose silent flow is deeper and more sad than the wildest bursts of grief.

'Raymond saw her, darling, and everything-the little that now can be done has been done just as though you had been there yourself. It may be necessary, but he hopes not, that you should be at the inquest.' Here Nelly had been unable to repress a shudder. There must be one, it seems, though Dr. Green, who saw your poor mother within a few minutes of her seizure, pronounced it, for certain, apoplexy.'

'Where-where is she?'

6

At the Albany, at Mr. Pennicuick's chambers. That is what makes it so impossible that you should go, even if there were not

other reasons. He has gone himself to some hotel; but the place will be given up to the officials-the jury and that—and afterwards she will be brought to Richmond. John will make arrangements. Pray be reasonable, darling.'

So Nelly consented, and never saw her dead mother's facejust as it had happened with her in the case of her father. There is much painfulness in such farewells, but also a melancholy satisfaction, and to forego it, was, in Nelly's case, an act of self-denial. It is a test (though a rough one, and by no means without exceptions) of the genuineness of our love, when we wish to take such sad leave-takings in person, and not to have our dead put out of sight-and, too often, out of mind-as quickly as may be.

On another point, also, Nelly felt herself constrained to give way to her good friend's arguments. If her own ideas had been consulted, she would have preferred to dwell alone in her present habitation, at all events for a little, albeit her bereavement had robbed it of all the attributes of home. But Mrs. Wardlaw had put it to her John, that it would never have done to let the dear girl eat her heart out with thinking of them as she had lost' in that death-stricken abode, and she contrived to rescue her from that fate by help of arguments borrowed from the Proprieties. ́

6

I care nothing for what people think of my staying here alone,' Nelly had said, not audaciously, but from that callous indifference to the opinion of people' which always accompanies genuine woe.

'But your poor dear mother would have cared for it for you, Nelly, under such circumstances. I am sure, if she can look down from heaven and see you now, she would say, "Make Coromandel House your home, my darling, until you find yourself better suited somewhere else."

A remark the sublunary tone of which could only be attributed to the very recent arrival of its supposed utterer in the Celestial Regions; but Nelly understood what was meant, and, urged also by the wish to gratify her friend, was moved to take up for the present her quarters with the Wardlaws.

There, in seclusion of course from all save her host and hostess, and with a sense of loneliness and isolation beyond the power of words to tell, she remained for some time, save for a few hours of painful publicity. It was found necessary, after all, that she should give evidence at the inquest. She pleaded against it as some half-blinded creature might have implored not to be dragged into the glare of noon, but declined to take advantage of a doctor's certificate to excuse herself. It could easily and with propriety have been obtained, for she was very far from well; but she had

been given to understand that to absent herself would be to evade a public duty. This information she had received, strange to say, in a note from Mr. Pennicuick, marked Private and confidential,' the contents of which she had therefore kept to herself; but there is no reason why my readers should exercise a similar delicacy.

My dear Miss Conway,-In spite of my utmost efforts to save you from attending the sad formality that must needs take place on Wednesday, it seems your presence can hardly be dispensed with. To learn that any act is a duty is, I know, in your case, to secure its performance: but over and above that consideration I think there is a peculiar propriety in your making this sacrifice. You and I are well aware that it was your mother's excessive sensitiveness and sorrow for your father's loss, acting upon a system already debilitated and little fitted to sustain so terrible a shock, that has been the cause of her decease; but it is just possible that some question may be put embarrassing to a mere friend (however devoted) like myself, but easily answered, and with much greater weight of authority, by yourself. Your poor mother's prejudices were strong-she was easily angered and somewhat difficult to conciliate-but we know how loyal and loving was her heart. It seems to me that no hint of what was after all a constitutional weakness should be allowed to leak out in a mere formal inquiry such as this, and your presence would prevent it, or nip it in the bud. I hope I have made my meaning clear: but at all events I am quite certain, my dear Miss Conway, you will not misunderstand my motives. For the present I write nothing more, for I feel the subject of my note is too grave and sad to admit of the companionship of another topic.

Your very sincere friend,

RALPH PENNICUICK.

Mr. Pennicuick's meaning was quite clear to Nelly, and she understood even his motives better than he imagined. She did not dislike him as Mrs. Conway had done, but she could not give him credit for unselfishness. That paragraph about her mother's prejudices' had reference, she was persuaded, to the feelings she had entertained towards himself; and the 'hint' of which he spoke in all probability was an allusion to the enmity between them. She was, however, as anxious as himself that no record of weakness should sully her mother's memory; and moreover it appeared her duty that she should do his bidding, and so she wrote him a few words of acquiescence. It did not seem strange to her, under the circumstances, that he had not, as usual, made Raymond his messenger, but other facts corroborated her view of the object of his communication. Perhaps, if she had been less nearly interested in its proceedings, the inquest would have been an ordeal even more severe than it proved to be. As it was, her thoughts were too much wrapped up in the Dead to admit of her being disturbed by minor matters, and moreover she was spared as much as possible in consideration of her position.

One juryman, indeed-there is always one such individual

among the twelve-did put some searching questions to her as respected Mr. Pennicuick, which arose from the circumstance that the notion had found its way into his head that that gentleman had murdered the deceased.

"Were Mr. Pennicuick and your mamma upon good terms,' he had inquired, at the time when she called at the Albany?'

They had not met for nearly a year, in consequence of Mr. Pennicuick's absence abroad,' she had replied; but he was my father's most intimate friend, and had just made a proposition through a third person, which testified to his good feeling towards her.'

"Your mamma had no pecuniary claim upon him of any kind?' persisted the juror.

'None whatever,' answered Nelly emphatically, and not without a sense of recognition, in her very emphasis, of the generosity of the offer she had in her mind.

"I think there is no need to pursue our inquiries in that direction,' the coroner had observed, and so the matter had dropped. She was unaware at the time that Mr. Pennicuick himself had already suffered from that hostile and suspicious juror, though she guessed something of it from what she read in subsequent reports of the proceedings. Mr. Pennicuick had schemed in vain to get Nelly examined first, and, failing in that, had given his own evidence with characteristic clearness: perhaps the juror had thought him too clear, and at once built up an hypothesis of murder, and then clung to his hobbyhorse, in a manner which, if it could be practised with real horses, would ensure a man's never being thrown.

"You say the object of the deceased's visit to your chambers, Mr. Pennicuick, was to receive from you an account of her late husband's death. Why had you withheld this from her?'

"I had not withheld it; I had communicated the particulars to her through my son Raymond, but it seems she wished to have them from my own lips.'

'She was not satisfied, then, with your version of the matter?' 'On the contrary, she desired to have my version without those alterations which, I suppose, belong to every narrative when it passes through fresh hands.'

'Your interview, however, seems to have been a somewhat stormy one?'

'It was so; through the natural excitement with which Mrs. Conway received the recital of her husband's fate, and of the atrocities that were committed upon him.'

You had no sort of advantage to derive, of course, from the death of the deceased lady?'