Almost my first question to him was whether he had heard any such rumour. He was holding my hand in his as I asked the question--he laid his other on it, and looked sadly in my eyes as he answered, "It is only too true. I have lost the best friend that man ever had." I was too much startled to speak for some seconds, then I burst into tears. "No, no," he said, in answer to something I had said. "It is only too certain--there can be no doubt; look at this." He took a telegraph paper from his pocket and showed it to me. It was from "Lemuel Blount, London." It announced the news in the usual shocking laconic manner, and said, "I write to you to Dykham." "I shall get the letter this evening when I reach Dykham, and I'll tell you all that is in it to-morrow. The telegraph message had reached me yesterday, when I saw you, but I could not bear to tell you the dreadful news until I had confirmation, and that has come. The vicar has had a message, about which there can be no mistake. And now, darling, put on your things, and come out for a little walk--I have ever so many things to talk to you about." Here was a new revolution in my troubled history. More or less of the horror of uncertainty again encompassed my future years. But grief, quite unselfish, predominated in my agitation. I had lost a benefactor. His kind face was before me, and the voice, always subdued to tenderness when he spoke to me, was in my ear. I was grieved to the heart. I got on my hat and jacket, and with a heavy heart went out with Richard. For many reasons the most secluded path was that best suited for our walk. Richard Marston had just told the servants the substance of the message he had received that morning from Mr. Blount, so that that they could have no difficulty about answering inquiries at the hall-door. We soon found ourselves in the path that had witnessed so many of our meetings. I wondered what Richard intended talking about. He had been silent and thoughtful. He hardly uttered a word during our walk, until we had reached what I may call our trysting-tree, the grand old beech-tree, under which a huge log of timber, roughly squared, formed a seat. Though little disposed myself to speak, his silence alarmed me. "Ethel, darling," he said, suddenly, "have you formed any plans for the future?" "Plans!" I echoed. "I don't know--what do you mean, Richard?" "I mean," he continued, sadly, "have you considered how this misfortune may affect us? Did Sir Harry ever tell you anything about his intentions--I mean what he thought of doing by his will? Don't look so scared, darling," he added, with a melancholy smile; "you will see just now what my reasons are. You can't suppose that a sordid thought ever entered my mind." I was relieved. "No; he never said a word to me about his will, except what I told you," I answered.