Was it some self-accusing on this score that now overwhelmed him as he sat alone in his room, trying to think, endeavoring to arouse himself to action, but so overcome that he sat there only half conscious, and but dimly discerning the course of events about him? At such moments external objects mingle their influences with our thoughts, and the sound of voices, the tread of footsteps, the mere shutting of a door, seem to blend themselves with our reveries, and give somewhat of reality to our dreamy fancies. A large clock upon the mantelpiece had thus fixed his attention, and he watched the minute-hand as though its course was meting out the last moments of existence. “Ere it reach that hour,” thought he, fixing his gaze upon the dial, “what a change may have come over all my fortunes!” Years--long years--seemed to pass over as he waited thus; scenes of childhood, of infancy itself, mingled with the gay dissipations of his after-life; school days and nights at mess, wild orgies of the play-table and sad wakings on the morrow, all moved through his distracted brain, till at length it was only by an effort that he could shake off these flitting fancies and remember where he was. He at once bethought him that there was much to be done. He had given Massingbred's letter to his mother, entreating a prompt answer, but two hours had now elapsed and she had not sent her reply. There was a struggle between his better nature and his selfishness whether to seek her. The thought of that sick-room, dark and silent, appalled him. “Is it at such a time I dare ask her to address her mind to this? and yet hours are now stealing over which may decide my whole fate in life.” While he thus hesitated, Lady Dorothea entered the room. Nights of anxiety and watching, the workings of a spirit that fought inch by inch with fortune, were deeply marked upon her features. Weariness and fatigue had not brought depression on her, but rather imparted a feverish lustre to her eyes, and an expression of haughty energy to her face. “Am I to take this for true,” said she, as, seating herself in front of him, she held out Massingbred's letter,--“I mean, of course, what relates to yourself?” He nodded sorrowfully, but did not speak. “All literally the fact?” said she, speaking slowly, and dwelling on every word. “You have actually sold the reversion of the estate?” “And am beggared!” said he, sternly. Lady Dorothea tried to speak. She coughed, cleared her throat, made another effort, but without succeeding; and then, in a slightly broken voice, said, “Fetch me a glass of water. No, sit down; I don't want it.” The blood again mounted to her pale cheeks, and she was herself again. “These are hard terms of Scanlan's,” said she, in a dry, stern tone. “He has waited, too, till we have little choice remaining. Your father is worse.” “Worse than when I saw him this morning?”