“Dear papa, I think they’ll go now; it’s late, and you ought to go to sleep.” “Not yet,” said Sir Giles, who had fallen into the old strain of faint sobbing and laughing; “plenty--plenty of time for sleep. Thousands of years, don’t you know, till it’s all--all over. Where are they? eh, Meg. I scarcely see you; eh!” he kissed the air again with his hanging, lifeless lips, “good-night; and t’other man. Gerald, be kind to her, my boy; a good girl, Meg, a good girl. She’s been married, which some might think a drawback; but if you’re fond of her, and she’s fond of you. Eh, Dunning? well I’m not tired, not tired a bit--let him be the god-father, my dear; and good-night to you, good-night to you--all.” He died in the night. The third funeral within a year from Greyshott! What a melancholy record was that--father and mother, and the only child! Sir Giles was the only one of the three who could be said to have been beloved. His wife had always been an imperious woman, his son had been a fool; but the old man was full of gentleness and kindness, and had been a model country gentleman in his day, known to everybody, and always genial to rich and poor. Once more the avenue was full of carriages, and the house of mourners, and there were some tears, and many kind recollections, and a great deal of talk about him as they carried him away. “It will be a long time before we see the like of him again,” the country folk and tenants said, while the gentlemen of the county congratulated themselves that the old name was not to be extinct nor the land transferred to other hands. The new baronet was not there; he was also an old man, and not fond of much movement, but Colonel Piercey was his representative, and an excellent representative, a man of whom the whole district might be proud. He was looked to by every one, pointed out to those who did not know him, and surrounded by a subtle atmosphere of suspended congratulation and welcome, notwithstanding the universal grief for Sir Giles. The old man’s dying words had not made a very deep impression on Colonel Piercey, except those which concerned Margaret. He had not understood the allusions, nor indeed thought of them, save as the wanderings of weakness. It seemed all of a piece to him--the thought that Sir Giles’ firstborn, the boy dead some thirty years ago, might have grown such a man as he, and his nose being put out of joint, and the petition that he should be good to some one, and stand by it. All these wild and wandering words Gerald Piercey put out of his head as meaning nothing. It was, perhaps, the “first boy,” whom he had never heard of before, whom he was to be good to, yet who would put his nose out of joint. It was all a muddle, and Gerald did not attempt to grope his way through it. He was deeply impressed and touched by the image of the old man dying; but he had no doubt as to his own prospects, and thought of no disaster. How could there be any doubt? If there had been