Poor wretch! he burst into tears and sobbed aloud, dropping back on his pillow and turning his face to the wall. “Pray try to be calm, my lord. This emotion will do you a mischief,” pleaded Mr. Campbell. “Go and bring my wife and child to me. Let me tell them the news,” he exclaimed, and then burst into the most sarcastic peal of laughter the rector thought he had ever heard. He left the room and went to find his daughter, whom he came upon, as usual, seated beside her mother and engaged in needlework over the baby’s cradle. “Come, my dear. Montgomery wants you. Bring the little one along with you. And, Hetty, dear, you had better come also,” he said. Both women looked up anxiously, half expecting that this was their final summons to the sick-room; that now “the end of earth” for Kightly Montgomery was at hand. “Is anything the matter, Jim?” inquired Hetty, while Jennie’s eyes asked the same question. “News of Montgomery’s relatives in Cumberland, that is all,” replied the rector. “What news?” demanded Hetty. “He prefers to announce it in person.” “Dear me! How mysterious we are! Come on, Jennie!” said Mrs. Campbell, taking her husband’s arm and leading the way. Jennie picked up her baby and followed. They entered the sick-room. The sick man held out his hand to his wife, saying: “Come here, Jennie, my girl! You are Countess of Engelmeed! Did you know it? And that doll in your arms is Lady Esther Montgomery!—for a few hours only while I draw the breath of life. Afterward you will only be countess dowager, while she will be countess in her own right. For the earldom of Engelmeed is not a male feoff exclusively, but failing the male line which fails in me, will ‘fall to the distaff,’ as represented by that rag baby of yours. So I think—you are com——” He paused in sudden pain and prostration. “Do not speak again for the present, my lord. You will hurt yourself. Rest a while,” said the rector, while Jennie looked at her mother in helpless dismay. “He is delirious again, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Campbell in reply to that look. “Stoop down——” muttered the dying man in a low, faint, husky voice. Jennie bent over him to catch his failing words. “You will be—compensated—for all—you have gone through—by being made—a countess—you ought——” His voice suddenly ceased. A spasm of pain traversed his face. “My lord! my lord! Have mercy on yourself and keep still,” pleaded the rector. It was too late. A wild look flew into the eyes of the dying man and fixed them on the rector’s face. A torrent of blood gushed from his mouth. Gentleman Geff had spoken his last words, and in a very few minutes he had drawn his last breath. Jennie threw herself sobbing into the arms of her father. She was too young to have much self-control, but whether now she wept from grief, horror or compassion, or all three combined, she could not herself have told.