“Not yet,” said the rector; “she is much disturbed. Your poor father is no more; it is too true; but,” and here the rector hesitated, “he did not die happily.” “What do you mean?” said Endymion. “Your poor father had much to try him,” said the rector. “His life, since he was amongst us here, was a life, for him, of adversity--perhaps of great adversity--yet he bore up against it with a Christian spirit; he never repined. There was much that was noble and exalted in his character. But he never overcame the loss of your dear mother. He was never himself afterwards. He was not always master of himself. I could bear witness to that,” said the rector, talking, as it were, to himself. “Yes; I could conscientiously give evidence to that effect”---- “What effect?” asked Endymion, with a painful scrutiny. “I could show,” said the rector, speaking slowly, and in a low voice, “and others could show, that he was not master of himself when he committed the rash act.” “O Mr. Penruddock!” exclaimed Endymion, starting from his chair, and seizing the rector by the arm. “What is all this?” “That a great sorrow has come upon you, and your sister, and all of us,” said Mr. Penruddock; “and you, and she, and all of us must bow before the Divine will in trembling, though in hope. Your father’s death was not natural.” Such was the end of William Pitt Ferrars, on whom nature, opportunity, and culture appeared to have showered every advantage. His abilities were considerable, his ambition greater. Though intensely worldly, he was not devoid of affections. He found refuge in suicide, as many do, from want of imagination. The present was too hard for him, and his future was only a chaotic nebula. Endymion did not see his sister that evening. She was not made aware of his arrival, and was alone with Mrs. Penruddock, who never left her night or day. The rector took charge of her brother, and had a sofa-bed made for him in the kind man’s room. He was never to be alone. Never the whole night did Endymion close his eyes; and he was almost as much agitated about the impending interview with Myra, as about the dark event of terror that had been disclosed to him. Yet that dreaded interview must take place; and, about noon, the rector told him that Myra was in the drawing-room alone, and would receive him. He tottered as he crossed the hall; grief and physical exhaustion had unmanned him; his eyes were streaming with tears; he paused for a moment with his hand upon the door; he dreaded the anguish of her countenance. She advanced and embraced him with tenderness; her face was grave, and not a tear even glistened. “I have been living in a tragedy for years,” said Myra, in a low, hollow voice; “and the catastrophe has now arrived.” “Oh, my dear father!” exclaimed Endymion; and he burst into a renewed paroxysm of grief.