The windows were thrown open to the bright morning air; the late autumn birds were singing, the trees were gently waving; even the gloomy pine-walk opposite had a ray of sunlight on it. Little thought I as I stood in the oak-parlour with my great happiness, little thought the servants as they went about their work, that some one lay dead in the west wing.

Breakfast waited on the table; the postman came with the letters; Hickens looked in to see if he might bring the urn. He waited on us far more than the rest did, although he was butler, knowing that Mr. Chandos liked it.

A stir in the hall at last: Mrs. Penn\'s voice speaking to Lizzy Dene. The tones were low, but they reached my ear.

"I cannot think you delivered that letter last evening, Lizzy. I ought to have received an answer long before this."

"Not deliver it, ma\'am!" returned Lizzy, with every sound of surprise. "I gave it in to the young man at the door."

"Wait a moment, Lizzy: what a hurry you are in! Are you sure Mr. Edwin Barley was at home?"

"Of course I am not sure," returned Lizzy: and I pictured Mrs. Penn to myself at that moment: her cheeks flushing red, her eyes flashing. fire.

"You deceitful woman! You told me last night Mr. Edwin Barley was at home!"

"Ma\'am, I told you the young man said he was at home. I can\'t stay here a minute longer: if Hill finds me gossiping here, she\'ll be fit to pull my ears for me."

A slight rustling in the portico. I looked from the window and saw Mrs. Penn go flying away as speedily as a middle-aged, portly women can fly. Mr. Chandos came into the room at the same time.

"How is your brother, Mr. Chandos?"

"Better, I trust, than he has been for many years in this life. It is over, Anne. He died at twelve last night."

The words struck on me as a great shock. Over! Dead!

"He was sensible to the last moment. It was a happy death," continued Mr. Chandos, in a low, solemn tone. "Truly may it be said that he has \'come out of great tribulation.\' God receive and bless him!"

I sat down. Mr. Chandos turned over the letters in an abstracted kind of manner, but did not really look at them. When I thought I might venture to speak, I mentioned Mrs. Penn\'s reproach to Lizzy Dene, and her running off after (there was no doubt) to Mr. Edwin Barley.

"Ay, I saw her go," he replied. "The answer she has been waiting for were the police, on their mission to arrest my brother George. They may come now. And presently will do so," he added, "for I have sent for them."

"For the police again! What for?"

He made no answer. Emily came in, looking as he did, rather subdued. She spoke civilly to me: with death in a house people keep down their temper. Mr. Chandos rang the bell for breakfast, and then we all stood at the window.

"Where\'s Dr. Laken?" asked Emily.

"Gone out," replied Mr. Chandos. "He breakfasted early."

"How unfortunate it is that I should have arrived just now!" she exclaimed, after a pause, during which we were all silent. "The carriages must not go out, I suppose, for the next few days."

"Ill doing is sure to bring its own punishment, Emily," Mr. Chandos said to her, jestingly, with a sad smile. "You should not have run away."

"We shall have Alfred over after me, I expect. His gastric fever will politely vanish when it is necessary that his wife should be looked up. But I am glad that I was here, Harry, after all," she added, her voice changing to one of deep feeling, "for it enabled me to see the last of him."

"I am glad that he was here," observed Mr. Chandos, "for it afforded the opportunity of his receiving comforts and attendance in his illness that he could not have had abroad. Now that the awful dread of his being discovered has passed away, I see how certainly all things were for the best."

"He stayed here a long while this time."

"He was too ill to leave. We could not urge it. The final end seemed rapidly and surely approaching."

"Do you call his illness consumption?"

"Not the consumption that attacks most people. If ever man died of a broken heart, George has."

"Did he come home to die? I mean, knowing that he was soon about to die?"

"No. He was weak and emaciated when he came, worn to a shadow; but he did not become really ill, dangerously ill, until afterwards."

"Do the servants know of it?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Will they be told of it?"

"Certainly not. We hope to keep it private to the end."

"But there must be----"

"Yes, yes," he hastily interrupted, seeing she would have alluded to the funeral. "Laken manages all that. What a bright morning it is!"

Mr. Chandos leaned from the window as if to turn the conversation. Emily, easily swayed, plucked a piece of mignonette.

"I suppose mamma will come downstairs to-day. Well, it\'s time she did."

"It is," asserted Mr. Chandos.

"For more reasons than one," she tartly added, which was a lance-shaft at me.

Hickens came in with the urn. Seeing the letters lying there untouched, he spoke with the familiarity of a privileged servant.

"The Indian mail is in, sir."

Mr. Chandos turned quickly to the table. "I see it is, Hickens." But I don\'t think he had seen it until then.

"I suppose there\'s nothing for me from Alfred," said Madame de Mellissie, languidly looking round. "I\'m not anxious to read it if there is: it would only be full of groans and scolding. Or from Tom, either? He never writes to me."

Mr. Chandos shook his head. "There\'s only one from Tom, and that is to me."

"But I see another Indian letter," she said, slowly approaching the table. "It has a black seal."

"Not from Thomas: it is in a strange handwriting. It is addressed to my mother."

"Any letters for my lady, sir?" asked Hill, entering the parlour.

"Two. One of them from India, tell her; but not from Sir Thomas."

Hill retreated with the letters. Emily placed herself in my seat at the head of the table, and we began breakfast. It was a poor meal for all of us that morning. Mr. Chandos drank his coffee at a draught, and opened his brother\'s letter.

"They were on the eve of action, Emily," he presently said. "Just going into it when Thomas wrote this. Some local engagement."

"Is it well over?"

"I hope so. But he closed this letter at once. Here is what he says in conclusion: \'I shall drop this into the post now, and if I come out of the turmoil safely, give you a second note to say so. That is, if the post should not have gone: if it has, you must wait another fortnight.\' Where\'s the evening paper?" added Mr. Chandos, seeking out a newspaper which had come with the letters, and tearing it open. "News of this action, however unimportant it was, ought to have come by telegraph."

He had scarcely said this when Hill came in, speaking and looking like one in alarm. I thought of the police; I fancy Mr. Chandos did.

"Sir--Mr. Harry--my lady wishes you to come to her instantly."

He appeared aroused by the tone--or the looks--and went out at once, opening the sheets of the newspaper as he did so. Madame de Mellissie demanded of Hill what he was wanted for.

"I hardly know what, ma\'am. Something very sad, I fear, has happened."

Emily started to her feet. "Hill, that letter never contained bad news from India?--from Sir Thomas?"

"It has got bad news of some sort in it, for certain," was Hill\'s rejoinder. "My lady gave a great scream before she had read three lines, and said some confused words about her \'darling son Thomas.\' The fear upon me, ma\'am, is, that he has been hurt in battle."

"Worse than that! worse than that! It came upon me with a prevision as I thought of the black seal and the strange handwriting. Emily, impulsive in all she did, went running up to the west wing. While I waited alone for them to return with some news, good or bad, I heard Mrs. Penn come in and accost Lizzy Dene, who was rubbing the brasses in the hall.

"Where is the letter I gave you last night?" she curtly demanded, her tone very sharp.

"Why, ma\'am, what\'s the use of asking me?" returned the undaunted Lizzy, after a faint pause. "Mr. Edwin Barley\'s people must know more about that."

"The letter you delivered was not my letter."

"Not your letter!" repeated Lizzy Dene, evidently affecting the most genuine surprise. "I don\'t know what you mean, ma\'am."

"The letter you left at Mr. Edwin Barley\'s, instead of being the one I handed to you, was some rubbishing circular of the fashions. How dared you do such a thing?"

"My goodness me!" exclaimed Lizzy. "To think of that! But, Mrs. Penn, it\'s not possible."

"Don\'t talk to me about its not being possible! You have been wilfully careless. I must have my letter produced."

"I declare to goodness I don\'t know where it is, or what has become of it, if--as you say, ma\'am, it was not the one I gave in to the young man," spoke Lizzy, this time with real earnestness. I had a letter of fashions in my basket; but it\'s odd I could make such a mistake!

"You did make it," Mrs. Penn angrily rejoined. "Where is the letter now?"

"Ma\'am, I can\'t imagine. It must have been spirited away."

"Don\'t talk nonsense to me about \'spirited.\' If you gave in the one for the other, you must still have had my letter left in your basket. What did you do with it?"

"If you offered me a thousand pounds to tell, I couldn\'t," was Lizzy\'s answer. "Looking upon it as nothing but a letter of the fashions, I thought it was of no moment, else I remember opening my basket after leaving Mr. Barley\'s, and seeing there was nothing in it. I wondered then what could have gone with the fashions. I\'m sure, ma\'am, I am verry sorry."

Mrs. Penn went upstairs. It was apparently a profitless inquiry. Lizzy Dene rubbed away again at her brass, and I waited and waited. The servants began to stand about in groups, coming perpetually into the hall; the rumour that something was wrong in India had spread. By-and-by the truth was brought down by Hill, with great tears upon her face. Sir Thomas Chandos was dead.

It was not a false report, as had once come, of his death. Ah, no. He had fallen in battle, gallantly leading his men to the charge. The Commander-in-Chief in India had written to Lady Chandos with his own hand: he said how much her son was regretted--that all the officers who could be spared attended the funeral. A shot had struck him in the breast. He had but time to say a few words, and died, his mother\'s name being the last upon his lips.

Hickens entered the oak-parlour and drew down the white blinds. While talking of Sir Thomas he burst into tears. It all proved to me how much Thomas Chandos had been liked by those about him.

The breakfast things were taken away; an hour passed, and the morning was growing weary, when Mr. Chandos came down, traces of emotion on his face. Alas! he was no longer "Mr." but Sir Harry Chandos.

The first person I heard give him his title was Dr. Laken. How strange it was!--had the news arrived only on the previous morning, the title must have remained in abeyance. Poor, banned, dying George had been the heir to it by right of birth but I suppose the law would not have given it to him. Dr. Laken called Mr. Chandos "Sir Harry" three or four times in the presence of the servants very pointedly. I thought he wanted to impress tacitly upon them the fact that there was no intervening heir. It was very strange; all: those blinds that they had not dared to draw down for George, the grief they had not liked to show, the mourning they might have been doubtful whether to assume; all did duty for both brothers now, and might be open and legitimate.

"I think the shadow of death had fallen upon Thomas when he wrote," said Mr. Chandos, in a low tone. And Dr. taken echoed the words questioningly.

"The shadow of death?"

"I mean the prevision of it. Throughout his letter to me a vein of sadness runs; and he concludes it, \'Farewell, Harry; God bless you!\' He never so wrote before. You shall read the letter, Laken: my mother has it now."

Lady Chandos had been coming down that day, they said; but the news had stopped it, and she would not now be seen until the morrow. The morning went on. Two official-looking people came, gentlemen, and were taken by Dr. Laken to the west wing. I gathered that it had something to do with identification, in case there should be any doubt afterwards of the death: both of them had known George Heneage in the days gone by.

The blinds were down throughout the house. Every room was dull. Madame de Mellissie evidently found it so, and came in listlessly to the oak-parlour. She seemed very cross: perhaps at seeing her brother there; but he had only come to it a minute before.

"Harry, I suppose Chandos will be looking up again, and taking its part in county gaieties after awhile--as it never has done yet?"

"Yes," he answered; "after a while."

"It would not be a bad plan for me to reside here occasionally as its mistress. Mamma goes back to the old Heneage homestead: she always intended to do so, if this crisis came in poor George\'s life, leaving you here to manage the estate for Thomas. And now it is yours, to manage for yourself. What changes!"

"Changes indeed! I wish I could be the manager for him still."

"You will want a mistress for it; and I shall be glad to escape at times from home. I get sick and tired of Paris."

"Many thanks, Emily, but the future mistress of Chandos is already bespoken."

Her fair face flushed; and there was a very tart ring in her voice when she spoke again.

"Do you forget that your position is changed? When you gave me that hint last evening, you were, comparatively speaking, an obscure individual; now you are Sir Harry Chandos, a powerful and very wealthy baronet."

What he answered, I know not. There was a smile on his face as I left the room and strolled outside. The sound of approaching footsteps caused me to look down the avenue, and the look sent me running in again. Two of the police who had been there before were approaching on foot.

"I have been waiting for them," said Mr. Chandos, quietly. I cannot get quite at once into the way of calling him anything else. "Emily, will you oblige me by going up to Mrs. Chandos, and make some excuse for taking her into the west wing at once. You can stay here, or go to another room, as you like, Anne."

I went up to my chamber. Madame de Mellissie was already passing along the gallery, her arm linked within that of Mrs. Chandos. Mrs. Penn advanced to the well of the staircase and saw the police. A glow of triumph overspread her whole face.

"Sooner here than I thought for!" she exclaimed. "You will see something now, Anne Hereford."

They came up the stairs, Mr. Chandos with them. Mrs. Penn retreated to the door of the east wing, but she could not resist the temptation of standing at it to look. They went towards her.

"Not here," she said, waving her hand in the direction of the west wing. "The person for whom your visit is intended is there."

"Pardon me, madam," interposed Mr. Chandos; "the visit of these officers is to you."

"To me! What do you mean?" she asked, after a pause, her voice rising to a shriek.

Never did I see a change so great come over a human countenance. They all retreated into the east wing, and the door was closed. What took place I learnt later.

In the most courteous manner possible, consistent with the circumstances, Mr. Chandos explained to Mrs. Penn why the police had come for her. He had reason to believe she was the person who had been disturbing the tranquillity of Chandos, he said. When she had offered her boxes for search before, he had declined to permit them to be touched: he must, much as he regretted the necessity, order them to be searched now. All this we heard later. Mrs. Penn was taken to. What she said, never transpired: resistance would have been simply foolish; and she made up for it by insolence. The police quietly did their duty; and found ample proof: a few skeleton keys, that would open any lock in the house, the chief. Her own lace was was there; Mr. Chandos\'s memorandum-book. She had came into the house to spy; feverishly hoping to find out the abiding place of George Heneage.

Her bitter animosity against him had but grown with years. An accidental circumstance had brought to her a suspicion that George Heneage\'s hiding-place was in England; and she had laid her plans and entered Chandos in the full intention of discovering it. My presence there had somewhat baffled her: she could not go peeping about in my sight; she took Mr. Chandos\'s private book from his desk in the hope that it might help her to the discovery she had at heart, and then invented the story of losing her lace to divert the scent from herself. Later, she conceived another scheme--that of getting me out of the house; and she stole the money to put it into my box; and arranged the supposed opening of her reticule in my room, and the reading of her sealed letter; and abstracted the letter I had put on the hall-table, hoping Mr. Chandos would fall into the trap and send me from Chandos. Now could be understood her former anxiety that the police should search her boxes and mine; hers were ready for the inspection, mine had the money in them; and, at that time (as I knew later) also the memorandum-book. Something else was found in her boxes besides skeleton keys--a grey cloak. Putting one thing with another, Mr. Chandos thought he had little need of further speculation as to who had stopped his horse in the avenue that night, and caused his fall from it. And the reason may as well be mentioned here, though it is anticipating our knowledge of it. She had lingered about the private gr............