All at once I started, for a horrible thought came into my mind, and turning my face I looked as well as I could at poor Dick's eyes. The light was very dim and I could only see that they were half open, while there was a quiet happy smile upon his lip. Then I eagerly held the back of my hand to his mouth to feel his breath, but there was nothing. I felt his heart--it was still. I whispered to him-- "Dick! Dick! speak to me," and I fancied there was just another faint sigh, but no answer--no reply--for with his arms round all he loved and who loved him on this earth, he had gone from us--gone without me fancying for a moment it was so near. And then again for a moment I could not believe it, but looked first at the doctor, and then at first one and then another, till they all turned their heads away, when with a bitter cry I clasped him to me, for I knew poor Dick was dead. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A SPIRIT OF THE PAST. Of course they were--the good old times, or, as Macaulay has it, "the brave days of old." Things are not now as they used to be; and mind, O reader, these are not my words, but those of a patriarch. Things are not as they used to be; the theatres even have not the casts now that they had fifty years since; those were the fine old coaching times, when team after team started from the old Post-office in style. There were beaux and bucks, and men of spirit then--men who could dress, and spent their money as it should be spent. Gambling, duelling, and such spirited affairs were common, and really, there can be no doubt of it, times are altered.