letter I ever wrote in my life. There are rumors--I cannot trace them,

nor fully understand them, but they imply that Captain Martin has been raising very considerable sums by reversionary bonds and post-obits. Without being able to give even a guess, as to the truth of this, I draw your attention to the bare possibility, as of a case full of very serious complications. Speak to your son at once on the subject, and learn the truth,--the whole truth. My own fears upon the matter have been considerably strengthened by hearing of a person who has been for several weeks back making inquiries on the estate. He has resided usually at Kilkieran, and spends his time traversing the property in all directions, investigating questions of rent, wages, and tenure of land. They tell marvellous stories of his charity and so forth,--blinds, doubtless, to cover his own immediate objects. Mary, however, I ought to say, takes a very different view of his character, and is so anxious to know him personally that I promised her to visit him, and bring him to visit her at the cottage. And, by the way, Martin, why should she be at the cottage,--why not at Cro' Martin? What miserable economy has dictated a change that must reflect upon her influence, not to speak of what is justly due to her own station? I could swear that you never gave a willing consent to this arrangement. No, no, Martin, the plan was never yours.

“I 'm not going to bore you with borough politics. To tell truth, I can't comprehend them. They want to get rid of Massingbred, but they don't see who is to succeed him. Young Nelligan ought to be the man, but he will not. He despises his party,--or at least what would call itself his party,--and is resolved never to concern himself with public affairs. Meanwhile he is carrying all before him at the Bar, and is as sure of the Bench as though he were on it.

“When he heard of Magennis's intention of bringing this action against Mary, he came up to town to ask me to engage him on our side, 'since,' said he, 'if they send me a brief I cannot refuse it, and if I accept it, I promise you it shall be my last cause, for I have resolved to abandon the Bar the day after.' This, of course, was in strictest secrecy, and so you must regard it. He is a cold, calm fellow, and yet on this occasion he seemed full of impulsive action.

“I had something to tell you about Henderson, but I actually forget what it was. I can only remember it was disagreeable; and as this epistle has its due share of bitters, my want of memory is perhaps a benefit; and so to release you at once, I 'll write myself, as I have never ceased to be for forty years,

“Your attached friend,

“Val. Repton.”

“I believe I was wrong about Henderson; at least the disagreeable went no further than that he is supposed to be the channel through which Lady Dorothea occasionally issues directions, not always in agreement with Mary's notions. And as your niece never liked the man, the measures are not more palatable when they come through his intervention.”

Lady Dorothea was still pondering over this letter, in which there were so many things to consider, when a hurried message called her to the sick-room. As she approached the room, she could hear Martin's voice calling imperiously and angrily to the servants, and ordering them to dress him. The difficulty of utterance seemed to increase his irritation, and gave to his words a harsh, discordant tone, very unlike his natural voice.

“So,” cried he, as she entered, “you have come at last. I am nigh exhausted with telling them what I want. I must get up, Dora. They must help me to dress.”

As he was thus speaking, the servants, at a gesture from her Ladyship, quietly stole from the chamber, leaving her alone at his bedside.

“You are too weak for this exertion, Godfrey,” said she, calmly. “Any effort like this is certain to injure you.”

“You think so?” asked he, with the tone of deference that he generally used towards her. “Perhaps you are right, Dora; but how can it be helped?--there is so much to do, such a long way to travel. What a strange confusion is over me! Do you know, Dolly,”--here his voice fell to a mere whisper,--“you'll scarcely credit it; but all the time I have been fancying myself at Cro' Martin, and here we are in--in--what do you call the place?”

“Baden.”

“Yes--yes--but the country?”

“Germany.”

“Ay, to be sure, Germany; hundreds of miles away from home!” Here he raised himself on one arm, and cast a look of searching eagerness through the room. “Is he gone?” whispered he, timidly.

“Of whom are you speaking?” said she.

“Hush, Dolly, hush!” whispered he, still lower. “I promised I 'd not tell any one, even you, of his being here. But I must speak of it--I must--or my brain will turn. He was here--he sat in that very chair--he held my hand within both his own. Poor, poor fellow! how his eyes filled when he saw me! He little knew how changed he himself was!--his hair white as snow, and his eyes so dimmed!”

“This was a dream, Godfrey,--only a dream!”

“I thought you 'd say so,--I knew it,” said he, sorrowfully; “but _I_ know better. The dear old voice rang in my heart as I used to hear it when a child, as he said, 'Do you remember me?' To be sure I remembered him, and told him to go and fetch Molly; and his brow darkened when I said this, and he drew back his hand and said, 'You have deserted her,--she is not here!'”

“All this is mere fancy, Godfrey; you have been dreaming of home.”

“Ay,” muttered he, gloomily, “it was but too true; we did desert her, and that was not our bargain, Dolly. It was all the poor fellow asked at our hands,--his last, his only condition. What's that letter you have there?” cried he, impatiently, as Lady Dorothea, in the agitation of the moment, continued to crumple Repton's letter between her fingers.

“A letter I have been reading,” said she, sternly.

“From whom--from whom?” asked he, still more eagerly.

“A letter from Mr. Repton. You shall read it when you are better. You are too weak for all this exertion, God-frey; you must submit--”

“Submit!” broke he in; “the very word he said. You submit yourself to anything, if it only purchase your selfish ease. No, Dolly, no, I am wrong. It was I that said so. I owned to him how unworthily I had acted. Give me that letter, madam. Let me see it,” said he, imperiously.

“When you are more tranquil, Godfrey,--in a fitting state.”

“I tell you, madam,” cried he, fiercely, “this, is no time for trifling or deception. Repton knows all our affairs. If he has written now, it is because matters are imminent. My head is clear now. I can think--I can speak. It is full time Harry should hear the truth. Let him come here.”

“Take a little rest, Godfrey, be it only half an hour, and you shall have everything as you wish it.”

“Half an hour! you speak of half an hour to one whose years are minutes now!” said he, in a broken voice. “This poor brain, Dora, is already wandering. The strange things I have seen so lately--that poor fellow come back after so many years--so changed, so sadly changed--but I knew him through all the mist and vapor of this feverish state; I saw him clearly, my own dear Barry!” The word, as it were the last barrier to his emotion, brought forth a gush of tears; and burying his face within the bedclothes, he sobbed himself to sleep. As he slept, however, he continued to mutter about home and long passed years,--of boyish sports with his brother; childish joys and sorrows were all mingled there, with now and then some gloomier reveries of later days.

“He has been wandering in his mind!” whispered Lady Dorothea to her son, as he joined her in the darkened room. “He woke up, believing that he had seen his brother, and the effect was very painful.”

“Has he asked for _me?_” inquired the other.

“No; he rambled on about Mary, and having deserted her, and all that; and just as ill-luck would have it, here is a letter from Repton, exactly filled with the very same theme. He insists on seeing it; but of course he will have forgotten it when he awakes.”

“You have written to Scanlan?” asked he.

“Yes; my letter has been sent off.”

“Minutes are precious now. If anything should occur here,”--his eyes turned towards the sick-bed as he spoke,--“Merl will refuse to treat. His people--I know they are his--are hovering about the hotel all the morning. I heard the waiter whispering as I passed, and caught the words, 'No better; worse, if anything.' The tidings would be in London before the post.”

Lady Dorothea made no reply, and all was now silent, save the unequal but heavy breathings of the sick man, and the faint, low mutterings of his dream. “In the arras--between the window and the wall--there it is, Barry,” cried he, in a clear, distinct voice. “Repton has a copy of it, too, with Catty's signature,--old Catty Broon.”

“What is he dreaming of?” asked the young man.

But, instead of replying to the question, Lady Dorothea bent down her head to catch the now muttered words of the sleeper.

“He says something of a key. What key does he mean?” asked he.

“Fetch me that writing-desk,” said Lady Dorothea, as she took several keys from her pockets; and noiselessly unlocking the box, she began to search amidst its contents. As she continued, her gestures grew more and more hurried; she threw papers recklessly here and there, and at last emptied the entire contents upon the table before her. “See, search if there be a key here,” cried she, in a broken voice; “I saw it here three days ago.”

“There is none here,” said he, wondering at her eagerness.

“Look carefully,--look well for it,” said she, her voice trembling at every word.

“Is it of such consequence--”

“It is of such consequence,” broke she in, “that he into whose hands it falls can leave you and me beggars on the world!” An effort at awaking by the sick man here made her hastily restore the papers to the desk, which she locked, and replaced upon the table.

“Was it the Henderson did this?” said she aloud, as if asking the question of herself. “Could she have known this secret?”

“Did what? What secret?” asked he, anxiously.

A low, long sigh announced that the sick man was awaking; and in a faint voice he said, “I feel better, Dora. I have had a sleep, and been dreaming of home and long ago. To-morrow, or next day, perhaps, I may be strong enough to leave this. I want to be back there again. Nay, don't refuse me,” said he, timidly.

“When you are equal to the journey--”

“I have a still longer one before me, Dora, and even less preparation for it. Harry, I have something to say to you, if I were strong enough to say it,--this evening, perhaps.” Wearied by the efforts he had made, he lay back again with a heavy sigh, and was silent.

“Is he worse--is he weaker?” asked his son.

A mournful nod of the head was her reply.

Young Martin arose and stole noiselessly from the room, he scarcely knew whither; he indeed cared not which way he turned. The future threw its darkest shadows before him. He had little to hope for, as little to love. His servant gave him a letter which Massingbred had left on his departure, but he never opened it; and in a listless vacuity he wandered out into the wood.

It was evening as he turned homeward. His first glance was towards the windows of his father's room. They were wont to be closely shuttered and fastened; now one of them lay partly open, and a slight breeze stirred the curtain within. A faint, sickly fear of he knew not what crept over him. He walked on quicker; but as he drew nigh the door, his servant met him. “Well!” cried he, as though expecting a message.

“Yes, sir, it is all over; he went off about an hour since.” The man added something; but Martin heard no more, but hurried to his room, and locked the door.