"Oh, how horrible it seems, nurse! Oh, let us try to get him out of his chair! Oh, poor Uncle Richard-my dear-my dear!" He was a heavy weight-dead weightfor he could not move hand or foot-both sides were palsied now; but the arms of the nurse were as strong as a man's. With little help from Lucy she got him on to his bed.

The girl-sole one among his relatives who had ever loved old Ready-money Mortiboy-fell on her knees by the bedside, and prayed to God.

The old man turned his eyes towards her. She saw he was still conscious.

-

"Oh! uncle," she implored, "try-try to pray try to follow my words. Uncle Richard," she cried, in an agony of grief, "oh! Uncle Richard-try to make your peace with God."

But Mr. Mortiboy was unconscious again. The doctors came in a few minutes. Their language was plain: they did not try to disguise the truth. The period of the old man's life might be reckoned in minutes. They could do nothing, but they stayed to see the end.

Ghrimes was sent for. He alone knew Dick's London address. It was past eight o'clock before he came back from the country, where he had been on business. He came touched his old master's powerless, helpless hand, and hurried away to the telegraph office to summon Dick from London. Vain errand!

For five hours from the time of his last stroke, the old man lay on his bed like one dead. He breathed, but every moment with less strength. To Lucy Heathcote it seemed like five days. Her father and mother were there with her, but she thought only of him who lay dying with them all round his bed. The death struggle came at nine o'clock. There was an inarticulate sound first from the old man's lips. Then he spoke. They all heard it.

He said, "My-son-Dick," and lay there -dead.

in the course of a week, and had just passed it over to her father, who read it with much satisfaction. Mrs. Heathcote, too, read it, but with different feelings, which she was studying how to express with due effect, when the messenger of evil tidings from the bank arrived in Dick's own dogcart.

The farmer was with him for five minutes. He came back with pale cheeks and quivering lips.

"Dick," he gasped-"Dick-he's gonedead-he shot himself by accident last night, and died an hour afterwards. Poor Dick! poor Dick!" He recovered after a little. "Strange they both died at the same hour. A telegram came to the police-office this morning at eight. They sent round to Ghrimes. Ghrimes has sent for me. Poor Dick!-poor Dick!"

The presence of a tragic event like this melted for a moment the animosity of her mother to Grace. They fell into each other's arms, sobbing and crying. Dick was dead! Dick the generous: Dick the noble: Dick the true and brave! Dick was dead! Nor was it for a full half-hour that Mrs. Heathcote, recovering herself the first, was able dimly to realize the change that this event might cause to her. Dick was dead-alas! poor Dick! But then-but then-all the fortunethe half million of money-whose would this be? Whose should it be, she asked herself, but her own? And already beginning the imaginary reign of splendour over which she had brooded so many years, a dream interrupted by Dick's return, she held her handkerchief to her eyes, and in the intervals of weeping indulged in delicious visions of grandeur.

Mr. Heathcote found Market Basing literally in tears. The people, nearly all tenants of the great Mortiboy estates, were gathered in knots, discussing the event. No news was come except by telegram; but there was scarcely any room for doubt. Dick Mortiboy was dead. The women wept aloud: the men in silence: all had lost a friend, the kindest-hearted friend they ever had-the most ready to help. Not one to whom Dick, in his short reign of four months, had not done some kind action: not one who could not speak from experience of his soft heart and generous nature. As the farmer drove through the crowd that besieged the bank with inquiries, the fresh tears rose to his own eyes, and he got down at the door almost crying like a child.

No one cared about the old man now. Dead? Ready-money dead? Well, he had been a long time, dying. He had passed away, four months ago, from men's minds. John Heathcote arrived at the bank, went through to the manager's office, where he found Ghrimes was there with Battiscombe, to whom Ghrimes had sent, after despatching his message to Parkside.

"Do you know of any will, Mr. Battiscombe?" asked Ghrimes.

"None. I have the keys-I suppose we ought to look."

In Dick's private safe, business papers in plenty; but no will. Stay, a packet labelled, "Private: to be opened after my death."

Open it," said the lawyer.

Ghrimes opened and read it. It was short and concise. It was the confession of Polly Tresler. As he read it, his face assumed a puzzled expression. He handed it over to Mr. Battiscombe, who read it unmoved. Lawyers are seldom surprised at anything which appears abnormal to the rest of mankind. Ghrimes was shocked at the idea of Dick's secret marriage.

"That explains," he whispered, "the early quarrel between himself and his father. That is the reason why Dick ran away." "Perhaps. It is hard to say. No great crime for a young fellow to be beguiled by a woman into making a fool of himself," said the lawyer. "It is as pretty a confession of bigamy-trigamy, even-as ever I read. Names, dates, churches, all given. Upon my word, this woman is an exceedingly clever person. It is signed by her, and written by poor Mr. Mortiboy himself; dated, too, only a fortnight ago. Mary Tresler, Mary Tresler-I know her, daughter of that drunken old gipsy woman who married my father's gardener a long time ago. Ah, dear me!”

"What is to be done?"

"Clearly, we must first establish the truth of her statements. I think, Ghrimes, I had better go to town and see to this myself, to prevent complications. Meantime, say nothing to the Heathcotes-to anybody. There may, besides, be a will. To prevent raising hopes in their minds, tell them, what is quite true, that you don't know whether any will was made or not. You know, of course, that if there is no will, Mrs. Heathcote is the sole heiress. She inherits everything-everything."

Then Mr. Heathcote arrived.

"We must have a coroner's inquest," said Mr. Battiscombe. "There must be a funeral. There is everything to be done. Will you come to town with me?"

"No-yes-what shall I do, Ghrimes?"

Go, by all means. The train starts in half an hour. I will send a message to Parkside. Go up to town, and see the last of your poor cousin."

They went to London-down to Dick's chambers, where they found the doctor and the old woman in charge. The doctor was standing by the bedside, with his chin on his hands, thoughtfully gazing on the stark and stiff form which lay covered with a sheet. He gently took off the sheet from his face.

"You are his cousin?" he said. "I am taking a last look at the unfortunate man. It is a singularly handsome face-a face of wonderful sweetness and goodness: a good man, I should say. And the most splendidly built man I ever saw. How could he have done it?"

The lawyer was reading Dick's last words, his only will and testament. John Heathcote solemnly looked upon the features of him who had been almost his own son.

"He says he did it by accident," said Mr. Battiscombe.

"Yes, yes; but how?-how? Look here." The doctor drew back the sheet, and showed the spot where the wound had been inflicted. "You see the place. Very well, then. Now take this pencil, hold it any way you like, and see if you could shoot yourself in the left side, so far back, if the pencil was a pistol. I defy you to do it. It is very odd. Yet he said he did it."

Coroner's inquest that evening. Intelligent jury, after viewing the body, and reading the paper-Dick's last imposture-heard the doctor's doubts, and pooh-poohed them. Shot himself?-of course he did. What did it matter how? As if a man would lie about such a thing as that. Verdict, "Accidental death "-the worthy coroner adding some severe strictures upon the frequency of gun accidents, and men's carelessness in the handling of weapons.

Dick was dead. The good that he had time to do lives still; the lives that he quickened, which were dead under the weight of grinding poverty and servitude, if they have relapsed to their old misery-which some may have done-have still the memory of better things, and therefore nourish a healthy discontent. The stirring of the blood which

his example and his words caused: his oration to the children, which will never die out of their minds: his charity, for the first time in Market Basing unconnected with religion and three sermons every Sunday: his sympathy with the fallen: his tenderness to the falling: his kind and rough wisdom: his unbookish maxims: his ready hand: his quick insight into humbug-all these things, and many more, make him to be remembered still. These live after him. The good that he did was a seed sown in fruitful soil, still growing up, destined to be in the after-years a goodly tree indeed. And the evil-does that still live? I know Palmiste pretty well, because I've lived in the island: he never did harm there, except to himself. Well, you see, I haven't been to California, or to Texas, or to Mexico, so I do not know. If ever I do go to either or all of these places, I will inquire.

Poor old Ready-money was buried, three days after his death, in the family vault-unostentatiously, quietly. No one was preIsent at his funeral but Ghrimes and Mr. Heathcote, with the lawyer. No one followed in token of respect. All his money had gone from him before he died: therefore, all his respect. No property left: of course, he was no longer of any account.

It was felt that a public funeral was due to his son. Mr. Hopgood, the mayor, had orders to prepare a simple funeral. But all Market Basing turned out to it. There was no mock mourning. It was no feeling of simple respect for property which brought all the women with the men, to see the last of

one who had been with them so brief a space, and had made himself so loved by all. Not one but had a kind word of his to remember him by; no poor man but had more than a kind word; no eye that was dry when the earth rattled upon his coffin, and the sublime service of the Church was read over his remains.

His pensioners, the old men and women, were there, loudly wailing. Those whom he had saved from starvation, like old Mr. Sanderson, the cashier of Melliship's bank, were there; those whom he had saved from ruin, like little Tweedy, the builder; those whom he had saved from shame, like Sullivan, the clerk; those for whom he had ever found a word of rough sympathy, and a hand ready to help; above all, the children, awe-stricken and terrified, in whose memory he lived as the universal friend and bene

factor. From highest to lowest, from Lord Hunslope to the beggarman, all came to shed tears over the untimely death of Dick Mortiboy.

"Truly," said the Rector, "charity covereth a multitude of sins.”

It was all over now. His burly form was with them no more. The vault was closed, the service read. They would never again hear his ringing laugh, his soft and sympathetic voice. The women would no longer, if they were poor, go to him to pour out their tales of want; if they were well-to-do, look after him in the street-so handsome, so good, so soft-hearted, so strong. men would no longer admire him for his skill and strength, or envy him for his prosperity. All was over. Dick Mortiboy was buried.

The

"Why fear that I should love you not?"

WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON.

THE reputation of a very successful lite

rary man might have been made on a fourth of what the ex-editor of the Athenæum has done. In the catalogue of the British Museum-excluding his last work, "The Switzers"-there are fifty-four titles bearing Mr. Dixon's name. He has, from his first literary effort-a play-to his last book of travel, written successively history, biography, essays, and travel, besides having filled the post of editor of the first among literary papers. His books have been translated into several of the languages of Europe, and there have been many American editions of his popular works.

He is the son of Mr. Abner Dixon, of Holmfirth and Kirk Burton, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and was born June 30, 1821. Early in life, Mr. Dixon was associated with Douglas Jerrold and the great writers of that day; and, after publishing