Her father had been dull and gloomy of late, and had more than once laid his hand affectionately on her ruddy golden hair, and said in a prayerful way that 'he hoped he might soon see her well married, and that she might never be left friendless!' 'Why such thoughts, dear papa?' she would reply. Dulcie had felt a sense of apprehension for some time past. Was it born of her father's forebodings, or of the presentiment about which she had conversed with Florian? A depression hung over her--an undefinable dread of some great calamity about to happen. At night her sleep was restless and broken, and by day a vague fear haunted her. The evil boded was to happen soon now. With these oppressive thoughts mingled the memory of the tall and handsome dark-eyed lad she loved--it seemed so long ago, and she longed to hear his voice again, and for his breast to lay her head upon. But where was Florian now? Months had passed without her hearing of him, and she might never hear again! Little could she have conceived the foul trick that Shafto had played them both in the matter of the locket; but, unfortunately for herself, she had not seen the last of that enterprising young gentleman. She felt miserably that her heart was lonely and heavy, and that, young as she was, light and joy, with the absence and ruin of Florian, had gone out of her life. She was alone always with her great sorrow, and longed much for tears; but as her past life had been a happy and joyous one, Dulcie Carlyon had been little--if at all--given to them. One morning her father did not appear at breakfast as usual. As yet undressed her red-golden hair, that the old man loved to stroke and caress, was floating in a great loose mass on her back and shoulders, and her blue eyes looked bright and clear, if thoughtful. She had, as was her daily wont, arranged his letters, cut and aired the morning papers for him, adjusted a vase of fresh flowers on the table, with a basket of delicate peaches, which she knew he liked, from the famous south wall of the garden, with green fig leaves round them, for Dulcie did everything prettily and tastefully, however trivial. Then she cut and buttered his bread, poured out his tea, and waited. Still he did not appear. She knocked on his bedroom door, but received no answer, and saw, with surprise, that his boots were still on the mat outside. She peeped in and called on him--'Papa, papa!' but there was no response. The room was empty, and the morning sun streamed through the uncurtained window. The bed had not been slept in! Again she called his name, and rushed downstairs in alarm and affright. The gas was burning in his writing-room; the window was still closed as it had been overnight; and there, in his easy chair, with his hands and arms stretched out on the table, sat Llewellen Carlyon, with his head bent forward, asleep as Dulcie thought when she saw him.