"Is this the end of all the years

That thou hast lived, my friend?

Of merry smiles and bitter tears,

Is this the end?

Tho' sad and dark the past appears,

God to thy soul will courage send,

And Christ will whisper in thine ears

The word which hearts desponding cheers;

So rise and to thy work attend.

Nor let the wicked ask with jeers

Is this the end?"

A few days after a decision had been arrived at concerning the marriage Basil Beaumont made his reappearance in Garsworth, and took up his old quarters at "The House of Good Living," in order to come to a final understanding with Reginald Blake.

The artist was in an excellent humour, for, according to his own judgment, he was master of the situation. He had only to threaten Reginald with the loss of his newly acquired wealth, and, judging the young man's nature by his own, he felt satisfied that, sooner than surrender Garsworth Grange, the false heir would pay him a handsome income to hold his tongue. With such income he would retire to the Continent and amuse himself for the rest of his life, while, as for Patience, seeing that he had no further use for her, she could make what arrangement she liked with Reginald, and please herself in her manner of living. With all this astute calculation, however, Beaumont made no allowance for the different nature of his son, and did not for a moment think that the young man's nobility of soul would induce him rather to resign everything, at whatever cost, than keep possession of what he knew was not rightfully his own.

He learnt from Kossiter that Reginald and Una were going to be married the next week, and smiled cynically to himself as he thought how easily he could stop the ceremony.

"If Una Challoner only knew the truth," he thought, "I think even her love would recoil from such a trial. Reginald Blake, the wealthy bastard, is one thing; but Reginald Blake, the pauper bastard, is another. Yes, I think I hold the best hand in this game; as to Patience! bah! my cards are somewhat too strong for her to beat."

Mr. Beaumont had only arrived a short time, and was seated before the fire smoking in the dull light of the winter afternoon, preparatory to writing a letter to Reginald. Margery, bright and alert, was clearing away the luncheon, so Mr. Beaumont, wishing to be quite sure of his ground, began to question her concerning the events which had taken place during his absence.

"I hear Miss Challoner is going to be married to Mr. Blake," he said genially; "it's a good match for her."

"And for him, too, sir," retorted Margery indignantly. "Miss Una is as sweet a young lady as you will find anywhere."

"No doubt," answered Beaumont blandly. "They are a charming couple, and certainly deserve the good opinion of everybody; but tell me, Margery, what about Dr. Nestley? I suppose he has gone long ago?"

"No," said Margery, shaking her head, "he is still here."

"In this place?"

"Yes sir, very--very ill."

"Humph!" thought Beaumont, "got the jumps, I expect. What is the matter with him?" he asked aloud.

"He lost his way in the snow storm last week," explained Margery deliberately, "and nearly died, but Farmer Sanders found him on the bridge and brought him here."

"Oh! and is he here still?"

"He is, sir. He was quite delirious, sir--raved awful. Dr. Blank's been attending him, and Miss Mosser."

"The blind organist--why has she turned nurse?"

Margery smiled in a mysterious manner.

"Well, folks say one thing and some folks say another," she replied, folding the table-cloth, "but I think she's in love with him; anyhow, as soon as she heard he was ill she came here like a mad woman, with Miss Busky, and both of 'em have been nursing him ever since."

"How good of them," said Beaumont ironically, "and is he better?"

"He's sensible," answered Margery cautiously, "but very weak. I don't know as he'll live."

"I'd like to see him. You know I'm a friend of his--do you think I could go up to his room?"

"I don't know, sir," returned Margery stolidly. "I'll ask Miss Mosser."

"Do, that's a good girl, he replied, and Margery departed.

"Poor Nestley," muttered Beaumont to himself, lighting another cigarette, "it was rather a shame of me to have led him on like I did, but if I hadn't he would have interfered with my plans concerning old Garsworth, so I had to--self-preservation is the first law of nature. Come in," he called out, as a knock came to the door. "Come in, Margery."

It was not Margery, however, but Cecilia Mosser, who entered, with a pale sad face and a painfully-strained look in her sightless eyes.

"Mr. Beaumont," she said, in her low sweet voice.

"I am here, Miss Mosser," he replied, rising from his seat. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing," she replied, groping her way to the table and standing beside it. "Are you alone?"

"Quite alone," returned Beaumont politely.

"You wish to see Dr. Nestley?"

"If I may be permitted."

"You will not be permitted," answered Cecilia slowly; "he is still very weak, and the sight of you would make him ill again."

"And why?" asked Beaumont, rather annoyed at the firmness of her tone; "surely a friend----"

"A friend," she interrupted, in a low vibrating tone. "Yes, a friend who is one in name only."

"I don't understand you," said Basil politely. "What do you know of the friendship existing between myself and Dr. Nestley?"

"I know everything--yes everything--in his delirium he revealed more than he would have done----"............