Mrs. Greatorex dropped her voice reverently: and her dark eyes, looking large from illness, had a bright, hopeful, yearning light in them as she spoke. "I think he was fit to go." "Yes," answered Bede, swallowing a lump of emotion. "It is the one drop of comfort amidst much darkness. At least----. But I must keep my word," he added, breaking suddenly off, and seizing the child again, as if glad of an excuse to cease; "you go now to Miss Ford, young lady." She set up a succession of cries. Bede only carried her away the faster. "You'll come back and tell me more, Bede," said Mrs. Greatorex. "I will come by-and-by," he turned to say. "I have pressing things to do; and I have not yet spoken with my father. Try and get your afternoon's sleep, mother dear." Miss Ford, a nursery governess, stood at the schoolroom door, and began to scold her pupil as she received her from the hands of Mr. Bede Greatorex. He shut himself into his room for a few minutes, and then descended the stairs in deep thought. He had begun to ask himself whether the worst could not be kept from his mother; not for very long could she be spared to them now. Mr. Greatorex was then coming out of the dining-room. He shook hands with his son, and they went back and sat down together. Bede grew quite agitated at the task before him. He hated to inflict pain; he knew that John Ollivera had been dear to his father, and that the blow would be keenly felt. All the news as yet sent up by him to Bedford Square was, that John was dead. Whence, then, that grey look on his father's face?--the haggard mouth, the troubled, shrinking eyes going searchingly out to Bede's? Mr. Greatorex was a fresh-looking man in general, with a healthy colour and smooth brown hair, tall and upright as his son. He looked short and shrinking and pale now. "Bede, how came he to do it?" Something like a relief came into Bede's heart as he heard the words. It was so much better for the way to have been paved for him!--the shock would not be so great. "Then you know the particulars, sir. "I fear I know the truth, Bede; not the particulars. _The Times_ had a short paragraph this morning, saying that John Ollivera had died by his own hand. Was it so?" Bede gravely nodded. His breath was coming and going faster than is consistent with inward calmness. "My God!" cried Mr. Greatorex, from between his quivering lips, as he sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. But the sacred word was not spoken in irreverence; no, nor in surprise; rather, as it seemed, in the light of an appealing prayer. "And what could have induced it?" came the question presently, as he let his hands fall. "I had better tell you the whole from the beginning," said Bede, "you will then----" "Tell it, of course," interrupted Mr. Greatorex. "Begin at the beginning."