“For his sake, my darling, you must not mourn,” said John Dallington tenderly, as he took her in his arms, and tears were in his eyes for her sorrow. “Not mourn!” Had any one else uttered the words Margaret must have felt that she was being mocked. She would mourn for him through the rest of her life, for was he not the only father whom she had ever known, the friend and protector of her infancy and girlhood? Oh, that she had loved him more, that she had expressed her gratitude more earnestly! And yet she was sure that he had understood, and was satisfied. The inhabitants of Darentdale were greatly shocked by the news of his death. The familiar figure, the genial voice, the friendly hand had seemed to belong to the place for ever. “Mr. Harris dead! Who will care for us now?” said the children. “There is no one to take his place,” said the men. “He had a good word for us all—he understood us,” said the women. There was no home which was not darkened by the shadow that had fallen, and very few individuals who did not sympathise with Margaret. But there was one person who laughed cruelly at that which brought sadness to so many. John Dallington took the news to his mother. “He died suddenly,” he told her, “but the doctors had only that day pronounced him incurably diseased; so the sudden death was a blessing to him.” “Did the doctors frighten him to death, then?” asked Mrs. Hunter. “I do not think he was afraid to die; he was too brave a man for that; but his heart must have been very weak.” “And so my enemy is dead!” said Mrs. Hunter. “I can scarcely believe it.” “He was not your enemy, mother. He was everybody’s friend. If you had known him you must have known that.” “How I hated him!” said Mrs. Hunter. “Yes, and it was most absurd of you, mother, for he never injured you in the least thing.” “Oh, yes, indeed, he did! He had my money. What will become of it now? If he had been a just man he would have bequeathed it to me.” John was fast losing patience. This idea which had possessed his mother was nothing less than a craze. “The money was not yours, and never could have been,” he said. “Do be reasonable! How can you talk of justice, when you are so unjust in your judgment of him? Oh, little mother, how much happier you would be if you would only be kind! Do cast out the evil spirit of jealousy which has poisoned so many years of your life, and see things as they are. There will come a day when you, too, will need mercy——” “As Henry Harris does now.” “Yes; and as we shall soon. Be yourself merciful therefore now. He has gone home to God. He is the Judge, and He only knew all about Mr. Harris.” “Is there a God? He did not believe in one.” “How can you say so, mother?” “I am not the only one who says so.”