“A fisherman, my Lady, left it this instant, with directions to be given to you at once and without a moment's delay.” “'Tis nothing bad, I hope and trust, my Lady,” whispered the old man. “The darling young lady is not ill?” “No, sir, she is perfectly well, nor are the tidings positively bad ones. There is no answer, Tate.” So saying, she once more opened the paper and read it over. Without seeing wherefore, Lady Eleanor felt a sudden sense of hardihood take possession of her; the accusation by which, a moment previous, she had been almost stunned, seemed already lighter to her eyes, and the suspicion that the whole interview was part of some dark design dawned suddenly on her mind. Nor was this feeling permanent; a glance at the miserable old man, who, with head beut down and half-closed eyes, lay before her, dispelling the doubts even more rapidly than they were formed. Indeed, now that the momentary excitement of speaking had passed away, he looked far more wan and wasted than before; his chest, too, heaved with a fluttering, irregular action, that seemed to denote severe and painful effort, while his fingers, with a restless and fidgety motion, wandered here and there, pinching the bed-clothes, and seeming to search for some stray object. While the conflict continued in Lady Eleanor's mind, the old man's brain once more began to wander, and his lips murmured half inarticulately certain words. “I would give it all!” said he, with a sudden cry; “every shilling of it for that--but it cannot be--no, it cannot be.” “I must leave you, sir,” said Lady Eleanor, rising; “and although I have heard much to agitate and afflict me, it is some comfort to my heart to think that I have poured some balm into yours; you have my forgiveness for everything.” “Wait a second, my Lady, wait one second!” gasped he, as with outstretched hands he tried to detain her. “I 'll have strength for it in a minute--I want--I want to ask you once more what you refused me once--and it is n't--it is n't that times are changed, and that you are in poverty now, makes me hope for better luck. It is because this is the request of one on his death-bed,--one that cannot turn his thoughts away from this world, till he has his mind at ease. There, my Lady, take that pocket-book and that deed, throw them into the fire there. They 're the only proofs against the Captain,--no eye but yours must ever see them. If I could see my own beautiful Miss Helen once more in the old house of her fathers--” “I will not hear of this, sir,” interposed Lady Eleanor, hastily. “No time or circumstances can make any change in the feelings with which I have already replied to this proposal.” “Heffernan tells me, my Lady, that the baronetcy is certain--don't go--don't go! It's the voice of one you 'll never hear again calls on you. 'Tis eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to die!” A faint shriek burst from Lady Eleanor; she tottered, reeled, and fell fainting to the ground.