“I—I—think—you—you ain’t Master Gray.” “Do you know me?” cried Learmont, fiercely. The man trembled and seemed all at once half-sobered by terror as he stammered— “I—I—have seen—” “Seen what?—who?” “Your worship at Westminster.” “Ah! My name—know you that?” “They called you Squire Learmont.” Learmont suddenly turned his back upon Sheldon, and casting an anxious glance around him to satisfy himself that they were still alone, he suddenly drew his sword and faced the trembling man. “Mercy! mercy!” cried Sheldon, dropping on his knees. “Idiot!” cried Learmont, “you are in my way. Curses on your worthless life!” “Oh, God, mercy!” cried the man. Learmont shortened his arm, and plunged his sword through the body of the defenceless man. With a wild shriek that rung through the Bishop’s walk, Sheldon sprang from his knees; he grasped wildly at the air, and spun round and round in his frantic efforts to stand. “Help! Help! Murder!” he shrieked. “Damnation!” cried Learmont, and again he passed his reeking sword through the heaving chest of Sheldon. Again the wounded man tried to speak, but a low gurgling sound in his throat was all he could produce, and he fell with a deep groan at the feet of the murderer. CHAPTER XXI. A Sunny Morning.—The Chamber in the Old House. The morning gathered each moment strength and beauty, for it was beautiful, although the trees were stripped of their summer verdure, and the earth no longer sent forth sweet flowers to— Load with perfumes The soft dreaming idle air That steeped in sunshines. Music, and all dear delight, Hung, tranquilly ’twixt heaven and earth. The sun, however, was bright, and the air, although the soft voluptuous warmth of summer, was full of health and life. The little waves on the river sparkled like silver broken into fragments and strewed upon the surface of the stream. For miles the clear cloudless sky reflected nothing but pure sunshine, beautiful although cold; it shone upon the palaces, the churches, and the bridges, and upon the meanest hovels pregnant with squalid poverty; it shone upon all alike. It found its way in floods of beauty, softened by rich colouring of glass and drapery, into the chambers of the rich and great, and it struggled through the dingy panes of the cottage windows, making, perchance, more happiness there than in the lordly mansion, which more frequently is the habitation of an aching heart. There was one small room into which that clear morning sun shone in all its dearly-welcomed beauty, and there was one heart that was cheered by its presence, and smiled gladly in its radiant light; that room into which it shone was the sleeping chamber of the young boy, Harry, and that heart that welcomed its rays was his—a heart that ever beat in unison with all that was good—all that was beautiful.