"I fancy so--by barge, I mean. Waggons would not take it, except by paying heavily. A great deal of the country traffic is done by water. This furniture is old, Jane, most of it, and will not bear rough travelling. Consider how many years your father and mother had it in use." "Then what should we do for furniture when we get there?" asked Jane. "Buy new with the money we receive from the sale of this. I have been reflecting upon it a good deal, Jane, and fancy it will be the better plan. However, if you care for this old furniture, we must take it." Jane looked round upon it. She did care for the time-used furniture; but she knew how old it was, and was willing to do whatever might be best. A vision came into her mind of fresh, bright furniture, and it looked pleasant in imagination. "It would certainly be a great deal to pack and carry," she acknowledged. "And some of it is not worth it." "And it would be more than we should want," resumed Mr. Halliburton. "Wherever we go we must be content with a small house; at any rate at first. But it will be time enough to go into these details, Jane, when we have finally decided upon our destination." "Oh, Edgar! I shall be so sorry to take the boys from King's College." "Jane," he said, a flash of pain crossing his face as he spoke, "there are so many things connected with it altogether that cause me sorrow, that my only resource is not to think upon them. I might be tempted to repine to ask in a spirit of rebellion why this affliction should have come upon us. It is God's decree, and it is my duty to submit as patiently as I can." It was her duty also: and she knew it as she laid her hand upon her weary brow. A weary, weary brow from henceforth, that of Jane Halliburton! CHAPTER X. A DYING BED. In a handsome chamber of a handsome house in Birmingham, an old man lay dying. For most of his life he had been engaged in a large wholesale business--had achieved local position, had accumulated moderate wealth. But neither wealth nor position can ensure peace to a death-bed; and the old man lay on his, groaning over the past. The season was that of mid-winter. Not the winter following the intended removal of Mr. Halliburton from London, as spoken of in the last chapter, but the winter preceding it--for it is necessary to go back a little. A hard, sharp, white day in January: and the fire was piled high in the sick room, and the large flakes of snow piled themselves outside on the window frames and beat against the glass. The room was fitted up with every comfort the most fastidious invalid could desire; and yet, I say, nothing seemed to bring comfort to the invalid lying there. His hands were clenched as in mortal agony; his eyes were apparently watching the falling snow. The eyes saw it not: in reality they were cast back to where his mind was--the past.