And above was the serene blue sky of an early spring, illuminated by the bright and cloudless sun. "But yesterday," thought Cecilia, as she surveyed the exciting scene spread beneath her, "had any one said to me, '_Thou wilt seek death to-morrow_,' I should have ridiculed the idea. And yet it has come to this! Oh! it is hard to quit this world of pleasure—to leave that city of enjoyment! Never more to behold that gorgeous sun—never more to hear those busy sounds! But if I hesitate, my heart will turn coward; and then—Newgate—Newgate!" These last words were uttered aloud in the shrill and piercing tones of despair. She clasped her hands together, and prayed for a few moments. Then, as if acting by a sudden impulse,—as if afraid to trust herself with the thoughts that were crowding into her mind,—she placed her hands upon the railing. One leap—and she stood upon the rail. For a single instant she seemed as if she would fall backwards upon the platform of the Monument; and her arms were agitated convulsively, like the motions of one who endeavours to gain a lost balance. Then she sprang forwards. Terrific screams burst from her lips as she rolled over and over in her precipitate whirl. Down she fell! Her head dashed against the pavement, at a distance of three yards from the base of the Monument. Her brains were scattered upon the stones. She never moved from the moment she touched the ground:—the once gay, sprightly, beautiful patrician lady was no more! A crowd instantaneously collected around her; and horror was depicted on every countenance, save one, that gazed upon the sad spectacle. And that one wretch who showed no feeling, was the old hag of Golden Lane. "She cannot now betray me for procuring the poison," thought the vile harridan, as she calmly contemplated the mangled corpse at her feet. CHAPTER CLXII. THE BEQUEST. Two days after the suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—an event which created a profound sensation in the fashionable world, and plunged the Tremordyn family into mourning,—Richard Markham was a passenger in a coach that passed through Hounslow. At this town he alighted, and inquired the way to the residence of Mr. Bennet, a small farmer in the neighbourhood. A guide was speedily procured at the inn; and after a pleasant walk of about three miles, across a country which already bore signs of the genial influence of an early spring, Richard found himself at the gate of a comfortable-looking farm-house. He dismissed his guide with a gratuity, and was shortly admitted by a buxom servant-girl into a neat little parlour, where he was presently joined by Katherine. The young maiden was rejoiced to see her benefactor; and tears started into her eyes, though her lips were wreathed in smiles;—but they were tears of pleasure and gratitude. "This is kind of you, Mr. Markham," she said, as he shook her hand with friendly warmth.