* * * * * During the two weeks that succeeded the birth of Lucy’s baby, her grandfather never left the house, but like some wandering spirit of unrest, moved silently but constantly, in slippered feet, from room to room, up and down the broad flight of stairs, and back and forth through the halls. Maids and serving men stepped aside when they saw the bent and faltering figure approaching; James Dunlap had aged more within two weeks than during any ten years of his life before. His kind and beaming eyes of but yesterday had lost all save the look of troubled age and weariness. The ruddy glow bequeathed by temperate youth had vanished from his countenance in that short time, as mist beneath the rays of the rising sun. The strong elastic step of seasoned strength had given place to the shambling gait of aged pantaloon. Burton in moody silence kept his room, or venturing out was seen a changed and altered man, with blood-shot eyes, as if from endless tears, and haggard, desperate face deeply traced by lines of trouble’s trenches dug by grief. Mrs. Church, the physician, nurse and even the buxom black woman, who came to give suck to the babe, all, seemed awe struck, distraught, as if affrighted by some ghostly, awful thing that they had seen. And then, too, all seemed to hold some strange, mysterious secret in common, that in some ways was connected with the recently arrived heir to the Dunlap proud name and many millions. The frightened conspirators held so sacred the apartments blessed by the presence of the Dunlap heir, that none but themselves might enter it, or even, in loyal love for all who bear their old master’s name, see the babe. One poor maid in loving, eager curiosity had ventured to peep into the sacred shrine and when discovered, though she had seen naught of the child, was quickly driven from the house and lost her cherished employment. Lucy Burton from the first hour after the birth of the child was very ill. For two whole days she hovered, hesitatingly, between life and death, most of the time entirely unconscious or when not so in a kind of stupor. But finally, after two days of anxious watching, the physician and Mrs. Church noticed a change. Lucy opened her eyes and feebly felt beside her as if seeking something, and finding not what she sought, weakly motioned Mrs. Church to bend her head down that she might whisper something in her ear. As her old friend bent over her, she whispered softly, “My baby, bring it.” Mrs. Church’s face became so piteous as she turned her appealing eyes toward the Doctor that, that good man arose and coming to the bedside took Lucy’s soft white hand in his. He had known her as an infant, and guessing from Mrs. Church’s face what Lucy wished, he said, “Not yet, dear child, you are too ill and weak, and the excitement might be dangerous in your condition.” But Lucy would listen no longer; she shook her head and cried out quite audibly: