E-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Early Canadiana Online (http://www.canadiana.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Early Canadiana Online. See http://www.canadiana.org/ECO/ItemRecord/17010?id=991eb2932c65376b SIR NOEL'S HEIR. A Novel. by Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING Author of "Guy Earlscourt's Wife," "A Terrible Secret," "A Wonderful Woman," Etc. New York: The Federal Book Company, Publishers. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. SIR NOEL'S DEATH-BED. CHAPTER II. CAPT. EVERARD. CHAPTER III. "LITTLE MAY." CHAPTER IV. MRS. WEYMORE. CHAPTER V. A JOURNEY TO LONDON. CHAPTER VI. GUY. CHAPTER VII. COLONEL JOCYLN. CHAPTER VIII. LADY THETFORD'S BALL. CHAPTER IX. GUY LEGARD. CHAPTER X. ASKING IN MARRIAGE. CHAPTER XI. ON THE WEDDING EVE. CHAPTER XII. MRS. WEYMORE'S STORY. CHAPTER XIII. "THERE IS MANY A SLIP." CHAPTER XIV. PARTED. CHAPTER XV. AFTER FIVE YEARS. CHAPTER XVI. AT SORRENTO. CHAPTER XVII. AT HOME. SIR NOEL'S HEIR. CHAPTER I. SIR NOEL'S DEATH-BED. The December night had closed in wet and wild around Thetford Towers. It stood down in the low ground, smothered in trees, a tall, gaunt, hoary pile of gray stone, all peaks, and gables and stacks of chimneys, and rook-infested turrets. A queer, massive, old house, built in the days of James the First, by Sir Hugo Thetford, the first baronet of the name, and as staunch and strong now as then. The December day had been overcast and gloomy, but the December night was stormy and wild. The wind worried and wailed through the tossing trees with whistling moans and shrieks that were desolately human, and made me think of the sobbing banshee of Irish legends. Far away the mighty voice of the stormy sea mingled its hoarse-bass, and the rain lashed the windows in long, slanting lines. A desolate night and a desolate scene without; more desolate still within, for on his bed, this tempestuous winter night, the last of the Thetford baronets lay dying. Through the driving wind and lashing rain a groom galloped along the high road to the village at break-neck speed. His errand was to Dr. Gale, the village surgeon, which gentleman he found just preparing to go to bed. "For God's sake, doctor!" cried the man, white as a sheet, "come with me at once! Sir Noel's killed!" Dr. Gale, albeit phlegmatic, staggered back, and stared at the speaker aghast. "What? Sir Noel killed?" "We're afraid so, doctor; none of us knows for certain sure, but he lies there like a dead man. Come quick, for the love of goodness, if you want to do any service!" "I'll be with you in five minutes," said the doctor, leaving the room to order his horse and don his hat and great coat.