'Poor papa,' she murmured; 'he has actually gone to sleep over his horrid weary work.' She leaned over his chair; wound her soft arms round his neck and bowed grey head--her lovely blue eyes melting with tenderness, her sweet face radiant with filial love, till, as she laid her cheek upon it, a mortal chill struck her, and a low cry of awful dismay escaped her. 'What is this--papa?' She failed to rouse him, for his sleep was the sleep of death! It was disease of the heart, the doctors said, and he had thus passed away--died in harness; a pen was yet clutched in his right hand, and an unfinished legal document lay beneath it. Dulcie fainted, and was borne away by the servants to her own room--they were old and affectionate country folks, who had been long with Llewellen Carlyon, and loved him and his daughter well. Poor Dulcie remained long unconscious, the sudden shock was so dreadful to her, and when she woke from it, the old curate, Mr. Pentreath, who had baptized Florian and herself, was standing near her bed. 'My poor bruised lamb,' said he, kindly and tenderly, as he passed his wrinkled hand over her rich and now dishevelled tresses. 'What has happened?' she asked wildly. 'You fainted, Dulcie.' 'Why--I never fainted before.' 'She don't seem to remember, sir,' whispered an old servant, who saw the vague and wild inquiring expression of her eyes. 'Drink this, child, and try to eat a morsel,' said the curate, putting a cup of coffee and piece of toast before her. 'Something happened--something dreadful--what was it--oh, what was it?' asked Dulcie, putting her hands to her throbbing temples. 'Drink, dear,' said the curate again. She drank of the coffee thirstily; but declined the bread. 'I beat up an egg in the coffee,' said he; 'I feared you might be unable to eat yet.' Her blue eyes began to lose their wandering and troubled look, and to become less wild and wistful; then suddenly a shrill cry escaped her, and she said, with a calmness more terrible and painful than fainting or hysterics: 'Oh, I remember now--papa--poor papa--dead! Found dead! Oh, my God! help me to bear it, or take me too--take me too!' 'Do not speak thus, child,' said Mr. Pentreath gently. 'How long ago was it--yesterday--a month ago, or when? I seem--I feel as if I had grown quite old, yet you all look just the same--just the same; how is this?' 'My child,' said the curate, with dim eyes, 'your dire calamity happened but a short time ago--little more than an hour since.' Her response was a deep and heavy sob, that seemed to come from her overcharged heart rather than her slender throat, and which was the result of the unnatural tension of her mind. 'Come to my house with me,' said the kind old curate; but Dulcie shook her head. 'I cannot leave papa, dead or alive. I wish to be with him, and alone.'