It was just three years since I had left Crown Anstey. Lord Winter told me I should have some weeks to myself, but he was so incessantly occupied I never liked to ask for them. I had never seen or heard anything of Crown Anstey since I left it. At Harden Manor all was the same, unchanged and unaltered. One morning, when I went into the library, a letter lay waiting for me. I saw that it was Coralie's handwriting, and my first impulse was to burn it unread. Why should she write to me again? Her letters only pained me. I threw it aside and began to work--in the busy occupation of the morning I forgot all about it. I did not open it until evening. It was from Coralie, but it only held these few words: "Edgar--My boy--my beautiful boy--is dying. Come to me; for if I lose him I shall die, too. In my distress I would rather have you near me than any one else. CORALIE TREVELYAN." Was it true, or was it an invention? Poor little Rupert dying! Why, no one had even told me he was ill. Perhaps I had better go. No mother could be so cold and so wicked as to feign death for her only child. Lord Winter raised no objections. "It was not very convenient," he said, but of course he "must bow to necessity." I was in time to catch the mail train. Eight o'clock found me the next morning in London, and, without waiting for rest or refreshment, I started at once for Crown Anstey. It was only too true. I found my old home full of the wildest confusion; women were weeping and wringing their hands--the whole place was in disorder. I was shown into the library, and in a few minutes Coralie came to me. I hardly recognized her; her face was white, her eyes were dim with long watching and bitter tears. "I knew you would come," she said. "He is dying, Edgar; nothing in the world can save him. Come with me." I followed her to the pretty chamber where little Sir Rupert lay. Yes, he was dying, poor child! He lay on the pretty, white bed; a grave-faced doctor was near; the nurse, Sarah Smith, sat by his side. His mother went up to him. "No better! No change!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Oh, my God! must I lose him? Must he die?" He was my unconscious rival; his little life stood between me and all I valued most, yet I knelt and prayed God, as I had never prayed before, that He would spare him. I would have given Crown Anstey twice over for that life; but it was not to be. "Do not disturb him with cries," said the doctor to his mother; "he has not long to live." She knelt by his side in silence, her face colorless as that of a marble statue, the very picture of desolation, the very image of woe. So for some minutes we sat; the little breath grew fainter and more feeble, the gray shadow deepened on the lovely face. "Mamma!" he cried. "I see! I see!" She bent over him, and at that moment he died.