The funeral was over. Charles had waited with poor weeping Mary to see the coffin carried away tinder the dark grim archway of the vault, and had tried to comfort her who would not be comforted. And, when the last wild wail of the organ had died away, and all the dark figures but they two had withdrawn from the chapel, there stood those two poor orphans alone together.

It was all over, and they began for the first time to realize it; they began to feel what they lost. King Densil was dead and King Cuthbert reigned. When a prime minister dies the world is shaken; when a county member dies the county is agitated, and the opposition electors, till lately insignificant, rise suddenly into importance, and the possible new members are suddenly great men. So, when a mere country gentleman dies, the head of a great family dies, relations are changed entirely between some score or so of persons. The dog of today is not the dog of yesterday. Servants are agitated, and remember themselves of old impertinences, and tremble. Farmers wonder what the new Squire’s first move will be. Perhaps, even the old hound wonders whether he is to keep his old place by the fire or no, and younger brothers bite their nails and wonder too, about many things.

Charles wondered profoundly in his own room that afternoon, whither he retired after having dismissed Mary at her door with a kiss. In spite of his grief he wondered what was coming, and tried to persuade himself that he didn’t care. From this state of mind he was aroused by William, who told him that Lord Segur was going and Lord Saltire with him, and that the latter wanted to speak to him.

Lord Saltire had his foot on the step of the carriage. “Charles, my dear boy,” he said, “the moment things are settled come to me at Segur Castle. Lord Segur wants you to come and stay there while I am there.”

Lord Segur from the carriage hoped Charles would come and see them at once.

“And mind, you know,” said Lord Saltire, “that you don’t do anything without consulting me. Let the little bird pack off to Lady Ascot’s and help to blow up the grooms. Don’t let her stay moping here. Now, goodbye, my dear boy. I shall see you in a day or so.”

And so the old man was gone. And, as Charles watched the carriage, he saw the sleek grey head thrast from the window and the great white hand waved to him. He never forgot that glimpse of the grey head and the white hand, and he never will.

A servant came up to him, and asked him, Would he see Mr. Ravenshoe in the library? Charles answered Yes, but was in no hurry to go. So he stood a little longer on the terrace, watching the bright sea, and the gulls, and the distant island. Then he turned into the arkened house again, and walked slowly towards the library door.

Some one else stood in the passage — it was William, with his hand on the handle of the door.

“I waited for you, Master Charles,” he said; “they have sent for me too. Now you will hear something to your advantage.

“I care not,” said Charles, and they went in.

Once, in lands far away, there was a sailor lad, a good-humoured, good-looking, thoughtless fellow, who lived alongside of me, and with whom I was always joking. We had a great liking for one another. I left him at the shaft’s mouth at two o’clock one summer’s day, roaring with laughter at a story I had told him; and at half-past five I was helping to wind up the shattered corpse, which when alive had borne his name. A flake of gravel had come down from the roof of the drive and killed him, and his laughing and story-telling were over for ever. How terrible these true stories are! Why do I tell this one? Because, whenever I think of this poor lad’s death, I find myself not thinking of the ghastly thing that came swinging up out of the darkness into the summer air, but of the poor fellow as he was the morning before. I try to think how he looked, as leaning against the windlass with the forest behind and the mountains beyond, and if, in word or look, he gave any sign of his coming fate before he went gaily down into his tomb.

So it was with Charles Ravenshoe. He remembers art of the scene that followed perfectly well; but he tries more than all to recall how Cuthbert looked, and how Mackworth looked before the terrible words were spoken. After it was all over he remembers, he tells me, every trifling incident well. But his memory is a little gone about the first few minutes which elapsed after ‘he and William came into the room. He says that Cuthbert was sitting at the table very pale, with his hands clasped on . the table before him, looking steadily at him without expression on his face; and that Mackworth leant against the chimney-piece, and looked keenly and curiously at him.

Charles went up silently and kissed his brother on the forehead. Cuthbert neither moved nor spoke. Charles greeted Mackworth civilly, and then leant against the chimney-piece by the side of him, and said what a glorious day it was. William stood at a little distance, looking uneasily from one to another.

Cuthbert broke silence. “I sent for you,” he said.

“I am glad to come to you, Cuthbert, though I think you sent for me on business, which I am not very well up to today.”

“On business,” said Cuthbert; “business which must be gone through with today, though I expect it will kill me.”

Charles, by some instinct (who knows what ( it was Dothing reasonable, he says) moved rapidly towards William, and laid his hand on his shoulder. I take it that it arose from that curious gregarious feeling that en have in times of terror. He could not have done better than to move towards his truest friend, whatever it was.

“I should like to prepare you for what is to come,” continued Cuthbert, speaking calmly, with the most curious distinctness; “but that would be useless. The blow would be equally severe whether you expect it or not. You two who stand there were nursed at the same breast. That groom, on whose shoulder you have your hand now, is my real brother. You are no relation to me; you are the son of the faithful old servant whom we buried today with my father.”

Charles said, Ho! like a great sigh. William put his arm round him, and, raising his finger, and looking inta his face with his calm honest eyes, said with a smile —

“This was it, then. We know it all now.”

Charles burst out into a wild laugh, and said, “Father Mackworth’s ace of trumps! He has inherited a talent for melodrama from his blessed mother. Stop. I beg your pardon, sir, for saying that; I said it in a hurry. It was blackguardly. Let’s have the proofs of this, and all that sort of thing, and witnesses too, if you please. Father Mackworth, there have been such things as prosecutions for conspiracy. I have Lord Saltire and Lord Ascot at my back. You have made a desperate cast, sir. My astonishment is that you have allowed your hatred for me to outrun your discretion so far. This matter will cost some money before it is settled.”

Father Mackworth smiled, and Charles passed him, and rang the bell. Then he went back to William and took his arm.

“Fetch the Fathers Tiernay here immediately,” said Charles to the servant who answered the bell

In a few minutes the worthy priests were in the room. The group was not altered. Father Mackworth still leant against the mantelpiece, Charles and William stood together, and Cuthbert sat pale and calm with his hands clasped together.

Father Tiernay looked at the disturbed group and became uneasy. “Would it not be better to defer the settlement of any family disagreements to another day? On such a solemn occasion ”

“The ice is broken, Father Tiernay,” said Charles. “Cuthbert, tell him what you have told me.”

Cuthbert, clasping his hands together, did so, in a low, quiet voice.

“There,” said Charles, turning to Father Tiernay, “what do you think of that? M

“I am so astounded and shocked that I don’t know what to say,” said Father Tiernay; “your mind must be abused, my dear sir. The likeness between yourself and Mr. Charles is so great that I cannot believe it. Mackworth, what have you to say to this?”

“Look at William, who is standing beside Charles,” said the priest, quietly, “and tell me which of those two is most like Cuthbert.”

“Charles and William are very much alike, certainly,” said Tiernay; but —

“Do you remember James Horton, Tiernay?” said Mackworth.

“Surely.”

“Did you ever notice the likeness between him and Densil Pavenshoe?”

“I have noticed it, certainly; especially one night. One night I went to his cottage last autuma Yes — well?”

“James Horton was Densil Ravenshoe’s half-brother. He was the illegitimate son of Petre.”

“Good God!”

“And the man whom you call Charles Ravenshoe, whom I call Charles Horton, is his son.”

Charles was looking eagerly from one to the other, bewildered.

“Ask him, Father Tiernay,” he said, “what proofs he has. Perhaps he will tell us.”

“You hear what Mr. Charles says, ............