A kind of stupefaction came over Henry Bannerworth, and he sat for about a quarter of an hour scarcely conscious of where he was, and almost incapable of anything in the shape of rational thought. It was his brother, George, who roused him by saying, as he laid his hand upon his shoulder,— “Henry, are you asleep?” Henry had not been aware of his presence, and he started up as if he had been shot. “Oh, George, is it you?” he said. “Yes, Henry, are you unwell?” “No, no; I was in a deep reverie.” “Alas! I need not ask upon what subject,” said George, sadly. “I sought you to bring you this letter.” “A letter to me?” “Yes, you see it is addressed to you, and the seal looks as if it came from someone of consequence.” “Indeed!” “Yes, Henry. Read it, and see from whence it comes.” There was just sufficient light by going to the window to enable Henry to read the letter, which he did aloud. It ran thus:— “Sir Francis Varney presents his compliments to Mr. Beaumont, and is much concerned to hear that some domestic affliction has fallen upon him. Sir Francis hopes that the genuine and loving sympathy of a neighbour will not be regarded as an intrusion, and begs to proffer any assistance or counsel that may be within the compass of his means. “Ratford Abbey.” “Sir Francis Varney!” said Henry, “who is he?” “Do you not remember, Henry,” said George, “we were told a few days ago, that a gentleman of that name had become the purchaser of the estate of Ratford Abbey.” “Oh, yes, yes. Have you seen him?” “I have not.” “I do not wish to make any new acquaintance, George. We are very poor—much poorer indeed than the general appearance of this place, which, I fear, we shall soon have to part with, would warrant any one believing. I must, of course, return a civil answer to this gentleman, but it must be such an one as shall repress familiarity.” “That will be difficult to do while we remain here, when we come to consider the very close proximity of the two properties, Henry.” “Oh, no, not at all. He will easily perceive that we do not want to make acquaintance with him, and then, as a gentleman, which doubtless he is, he will give up the attempt.” “Let it be so, Henry. Heaven knows I have no desire to form any new acquaintance with any one, and more particularly under our present circumstances of depression. And now, Henry, you must permit me, as I have had some repose, to share with you your night watch in Flora’s room.” “I would advise you not, George; your health, you know, is very far from good.” “Nay, allow me. If not, then the anxiety I shall suffer will do me more harm than the watchfulness I shall keep up in her chamber.” This was an argument which Henry felt himself the force of too strongly not to admit it in the case of George, and he therefore made no further opposition to his wish to make one in the night watch.