for the Hon. Member for Slowcombe to make his explanation regarding the mysterious affair at Dhulang, under cover of a question to the Government with respect to the payment of a pension to the orphan daughter of the late Captain Conway. His statement was looked forward to by the public with peculiar interest in consequence of certain circumstances to which we have from time to time called the attention of our readers: and their curiosity, it seems, is, after all, not likely to be quickly satisfied. Mr. Ralph Pennicuick, it is said, was seized with sudden illness on the very threshold of the House of Commons. From certain information which has reached us, and which we hold in our hands, this incident seems to us, to say the least of it, to the last degree unfortunate for the Hon. Member for Slowcombe. If he is innocent of certain grave matters which we refrain for the present from alluding to more particularly, never was an attack of illness more inopportune; if, on the other hand, he is guilty-and supposing the hon. gentleman's indisposition to be physical, and as serious as it is represented-one would almost imagine

6

"Well, what?' inquired the sick man impatiently. Why can't the hack speak out?'

'He does speak out, sir,' said Raymond hesitatingly, and in the next sentence: but I hardly like to repeat such words: one would imagine," he says, "that the Finger of Providence had intervened in the matter, and struck the guilty down." Raymond expected an outburst of wrath, or more probably some expression of scorn. But there was only silence, and this alarmed him. His father had closed his eyes.

"I am sure, sir, you are too sensible, even in your present weak condition,' said Raymond, 'to be moved by vulgar declamation of

this sort. If I am not much mistaken, such words are actionable, though indeed the horsewhip applied to such a scoundrel

'Draw down the blind, Raymond; the light hurts me,' interrupted his father, as though he heard him not.

Then there was silence again, which to the young man, unused to illness, and dreading he knew not what, was almost intolerable. "Will you not have a cup of tea, sir?' said he presently. The sick man's lips moved slowly, and the young man leant down to listen.

""And struck the guilty down," were the words he heard; and again: "the finger of Providence"-that means the finger of God.' It was positively astounding to Raymond to hear the invective of a penny paper repeated thus with every sign of intense feeling by his father's lips. Of course, it showed how weak and ill he was; but still it was astounding.

'Providence is stronger than we are, after all, my lad,' continued the other, in more distinct tones. 'I have fought against it all my life. But I give in.'

'It is never too late to make our peace with God,' said Raymond reverently.

'I would I could make my peace with Man,' was the unexpected reply.

'Oh father, if there is anything on your mind that troubles it as I have for some time feared,' said Raymond earnestly—“ I beseech you, if it would lighten your load, to let me share the burden.' Ah, you think I am dying,' answered the other bitterly; 'you would have me confess, would you? Why don't you send Hatton for a priest? It would be a strange errand, but he would do your bidding. He has been educated to be astonished at nothing.'

Indeed, sir, I trust you are not dying-

"Then you trust in vain: I am,' interrupted the sick man curtly. 'When I pass through that door again, it will be feet foremost.'

'If it be so, father,' said Raymond solemnly, 'I entreat you more than ever to ease your mind of this sore trouble. Tell me— your only son-what it is, that I may comfort you.'

'You do not know what you ask, lad,' sighed the sick man wearily; he turned his face to the wall as though to avoid further questioning, but not before Raymond had marked a certain yearning look in his eyes which seemed to contradict the action.

'I do not know, of course, father, nor do I wish to know except for 'your sake; but if I could give you ever so little comfort

'It would cost you dearly,' put in the other gravely.

• If you mean that it would lose me money, sir, I beseech you not to let that weigh with you. What is money compared with peace of mind?'

Nay, what is your money compared with my peace of mindthat is the question,' said the sick man bitterly. It was curious to see how his old self asserted itself in the intervals, as it were, of his new condition of mind.

6

Well, sir, I answer, Nothing.'

'Twenty thousand pounds is not to be called nothing, lad. That is what you would have to pay for hearing my story. No publisher has ever given such a sum yet for a three-volume one.'

This speech, instead of being given trippingly on the tip of the tongue, was delivered in a hoarse voice, with stops and gasps ; the dew stood on the speaker's brow, his dilated eyes were fixed upon the pattern of the paper on the wall.

'I would give twice the sum, father, if I possessed it,' said Raymond simply, to see you at ease in mind or body.'

'That will never be, lad: yet I could wish

What, what, father? There is nothing I would not do, nothing I would not sacrifice, to give you comfort.'

'I know it, I feel it: you are a good son-I had forgotten something. No, no. It would be a poor return indeed for such loving duty. The money, as you say, would be nothing in your eyes, though it has been much-too much—in mine. It is lying heavy on me now, and will press me down, down in the very grave.' 'Oh sir, I beseech you tell me, if this burden may be lifted, ever so little-'

'No, lad, no; it would be your ruin. I do not mean the mere money loss; but it would destroy your happiness. There are things in the Bible true after all: that the sins of the father are visited on the children, for one thing. You don't understand, my lad. How should you?'

'I know at least, sir, that I am your son,' said Raymond firmly ; ' and it is mine by right to share my father's burden.'

"Your right would be a wrong, Raymond,' answered the sick man, turning his face towards his son with a pitiful look; ‘a grievous and cruel wrong. If I told you what is on my mind, the dearest wish of your heart would be blighted for ever.

never marry Ellen Conway.'

You could

Raymond turned white to the very lips. His heart became as lead. He felt that the lamp that lives within us all, when fed by Love and Youth (though it may burn but low), was suddenly extinguished, leaving all things dark; but he answered in a firm voice, nevertheless, 'Tell me, father.'

CHAPTER XXII.

THE SELF-ACCUSER.

'Do you remember a play of Shakespeare's, Raymond, where a man says to his sister, "Death is a dreadful thing," and she replies, "And shamed life a hateful"?'

"Yes, father.'

'Well, I was once in that man's position. I saw before meimmediately before me-a slow and painful death, and also a way of escape by the sacrifice of another man. And I chose the way escape. To be sure, I did so with the consent of the other.'

of

'That was something,' said Raymond, drawing a deep breath. 'Well, it was short of murder. I said to myself this: "I am rich, this man is poor: I enjoy life, and he has not the means to It is better, therefore, if one of us is to die, that it should be he and not I.""

do so.

'It was not certain, then, that the man would die?'

'It was quite certain, though we pretended to one another-or at least I pretended to him—that there was a chance of rescue, of What I tried to persuade myself he did, was to risk his life for mine: but what I knew in my heart he did, was to sacrifice it for mine; and he did sacrifice it."

ransom.

'Oh father, was it Arthur Conway?'