“It seems dreadful,” said Annie, with quivering lips and streaming eyes, “to think of oneself when reading of such awful catastrophes. The news is sad enough for anyone to read, but how can we help thinking also how strangely it affects us? Wear is dead; and now death has overtaken the only other witness, apart from ourselves, upon whom we could hope to place any reliance. Surely God must have forsaken us altogether.” “Not that, my dear child,” was Mrs. Riddell’s trembling protest. “We are sorely tried. But I cannot bring myself to think that He has wholly deserted us. He is just trying us to the utmost of our strength.” With this, Mrs. Riddell stooped to kiss Annie. Then, wishing the others “good-night,” she left them, for she feared to break down, and thus increase the sorrow of the others. She also hoped that her Bible, a never-failing source of comfort, would lend her its tranquillising aid. Alas, she was soon to experience a trial great enough to make even her faith falter. The next morning all four were seated at breakfast, when a servant brought the morning paper in. “Quick, father,” said Annie. “Look at the shipping news and see if there is any account of the ‘Merry Maid’.” Mr. Cory turned obediently to the part of the paper named. But he was so long in making any remark that Annie looked up in surprise, which deepened into terror when she saw the expression of her father’s face. It was white and drawn, and big drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. Mutely she asked to see for herself what was the new trouble sent them. And mutely he handed her the paper. The reader already knows what she was likely to read there, and will not care to witness the grief with which the news of Hilton Riddell’s death was received. But, great though the grief was, there came a time when other passions gave it battle. “My boy has been murdered,” said the heartbroken mother. “I may lie down, and die. Hilton is dead, and Harley’s last hope is gone.” “Hilton has been murdered,” said Annie. “But Harley’s last hope has not gone. I still count for something, and I will never rest until I have tracked and denounced the man to whom we owe all our misery.” “Hilton has been murdered,” said Mr. Cory. “But the world is not so very big after all, and I swear that his murder shall not go unavenged.” “Yes, there has been murder,” said Miss Cory; “and everything must be done to punish the fiend who is guilty of it. I cannot go with you, my place is with our unhappy friend here. But I can do this much--I can place my fortune at your disposal. Spend it freely in tracking our enemy. I will give every penny I have for such a purpose. Go, and my blessing go with you.” So far, everything had seemed to work in Hugh Stavanger’s favour. All those whom he had to fear were swept from his path. But, if he had heard and seen what passed at the Corys, he would perhaps have trembled.