"You need not tell her," he answers. "No need to alarm her needlessly. After all, our forebodings may be vain. Fairvale is the most fearless and accomplished rider I ever saw. He may even conquer King." But even then the loud and startling peal of the door-bell rings like a wild alarm through the house. * * * * * Sir Harry's fears have had only too good a foundation. They have picked up the earl from the hard and flinty pavement, where the maddened brute had flung him, and brought him home bleeding, senseless--mortally injured, all the surgeons agree. And Lady Vera? The shock of the awful tidings had almost rent her heart in twain. Passing from one swoon into another, she lies on her couch, white and horror-stricken, shuddering sighs heaving her breast. At last they come to tell her that the awful stupor is over. He is conscious, and has asked for her. "How long?" she asks, faintly, for they have told her that his hours are numbered. "Calm yourself, for he cannot bear the least excitement." But when Vera goes into his presence, and sees him lying so marble-white, with the black hair tossed back from the high, pale brow, and the eager, asking eyes fixed upon her anguished face, a great, choking knot rises into her throat--it seems as if she will choke with the violence of her repressed emotion. "Father!" she wails, with a world of grief in that one word, and falls on her knees by his bed-side. "I am going from you, dear," he answers, with the strange calmness of the dying. "The black river of death yawns at my feet. The pale and mystic boatman is waiting to row me over. Already the cold waves splash over me. Vera!" "Father," she answers, placing her hand in the cold one feebly groping for it. His hollow, dark eyes roll around the room. "Are we alone?" "Alone," she answers, for all the kindly watchers have withdrawn, leaving father and child to the sweet solace of this last moment together, undisturbed by alien eyes. The dark eyes seek hers--sad, wistful, full of vain remorse. "Vera, I was reckless, mad, defiant of fate. I have thrown my life away, my poor, blighted life. Can you forgive me, my poor, orphaned girl?" Only her stifled sobs answer him. "I did not mean it, Vera. I was tormented by my burning thoughts, and I only sought diversion. I thought I could hold the fiery brute in check. But the devil threw me. No matter; I am to blame. I was too reckless. But you forgive me, darling?" She kisses him because she cannot speak. "I have lost my life," he murmurs, sadly; "lost it before my work on earth was done. My daughter, you recall what I said to you so short a while ago?" She shivers, and lifts her dark, foreboding eyes to his face. "Yes, father." "Bring me the Bible from yonder stand, dear. You must swear a solemn oath." The beautiful young face quivers with nameless dread and fear. "Oh, father," she prays, with lifted hands and streaming eyes, "leave it to Heaven!"