Ravenshoe. By Henry Kingsley.

OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN. 17
laid it upon the baby's head. Then she looked at Densil, who
was now leaning over her, and with a great effort spoke.
"Densil, dear, you will remember your promise?"
"I will swear it, my love."
A few more labored sighs, and a greater effort: " Swear it to
me, love."
He swore that he would respect the promise he had made, so
help him God!
The eyes were fixed now, and all was still. Then there was a
long sigh; then there was a long silence; then the vicar rose
from his knees and looked at Densil. There were but three in
the chamber now.
X.*X * * *
Densil passed through the weeping women, and went straight
to his own study. There he sat down, tearless, musing much
about her who was gone.
How he had grown to love that woman, he thought, - her that
he had married for her beauty and her pride, and had thought so
cold and hard! He remembered how the love of her had grown
stronger, year by year, since their first child was born. How he
had respected her for her firmness and consistency; and how often,
he thought, had he sheltered his weakness behind her strength!
His right hand was gone, and he was left alone to do battle by
himself!
One thing was certain. Happen what would, his promise
should be respected, and this last boy, just born, should be brought
up a Protestant, as his mother had wished. He knew the opposition he would have from Father Mtackworth, and determined to
brave it. And, as the name of that man came into his mind,
some of his old fierce, savage nature broke out again, and he
almost cursed him aloud.
"I hate that fellow! I should like to defy him, and let him do
his worst. I'd do it, now she's gone, if it was n't for the boys.
No, hang it, it would n't do. If I'd told him under seal of confession, instead of letting him grub it out, he could n't have hung
it over me like this. I wish he was "
If Father Mackworth had had the slightest inkling of the state
of mind of his worthy patron towards him, it is very certain that
he would not have chosen that very moment to rap at the ddor.
The most acute of us make a mistake sometimes; and he, haunted
with vague suspicions since the conversation he had overheard inl
the drawing-room before the birth of Cuthbert, grew impatient,
and determined to solve his doubts at once, and, as we have seen,
selected the singularly happy moment when poor, passionate
Densil was cursing him to his heart's content.
"Brother, I am come to comfort you," he said, opening the
B