The dying man had been aroused to full consciousness at last.  One hand feebly rested on his daughter’s stricken young head, the other lay motionless on the counterpane.  His dulled eyes went aimlessly wandering.

“Doctor!”

The old physician bent over him.

“How long?” he paused—­“how long can I last?”

“My dear friend—­”

“How long?  Quick! the truth! how long?”

“Until to-morrow.”

“Ah!”

The hand lying on Harrie’s dark curls lay more heavily perhaps—­that was all.

“Is there anything you wish? anything you want done? any person you would like to see?”

“Yes,” the dying man answered, “yes, Sir Everard Kingsland.”

“Sir Everard Kingsland is here.”

He motioned the baronet to approach.

Sir Everard bent over him.

“Send them away,” said the sick man.  “Both.  I want to speak to you alone.”

Ho delivered the message, and the rector and doctor went into the passage to wait.

“Come closer,” the captain said, and the young baronet knelt by the bedside, opposite Harrie, “and tell the truth to a dying man.  Harrie, my darling, are you listening?”

“Yes, papa.”

She lifted her pale young face, rigid in tearless despair.

“My own dear girl, I am going to leave a little sooner than I thought.  I knew my death would be soon and sudden, but I did not expect it so soon, so awfully sudden as this!” His lips twitched spasmodically, and there was a brief pause.  “I had hoped not to leave you alone and friendless in the world, penniless and unprotected.  I hoped to live to see you the wife of some good man, but it is not to be.  God wills for the best, my darling, and to Him I leave you.”

A dry, choking sob was the girl’s answer.  Her eyes were burning and bright.  The captain turned to the impatient, expectant young baronet.

“Sir Everard Kingsland,” he said, with a painful effort, “you are the son of my old and much-valued friend; therefore I speak.  My near approach to eternity lifts me above the minor considerations of time.  Yesterday morning, from yonder window, I saw you on the terrace with my daughter.”

The baronet grasped his hand, his face flushed, his eyes aglow.  Oh, surely, the hour of his reward had come!

“You made her an offer of your hand and heart?”

“Which she refused,” the young man said, with a glance of unutterable reproach.  “Yes, sir; and I love her with my whole heart!”

“I thought so,” very faintly.  “Why did you refuse, Harrie?”

“Oh, papa!  Why are we talking of this now?”

“Because I am going to leave you, my daughter.  Because I would not leave you alone.  Why did you refuse Sir Everard?”

“Papa, I—­I only knew him such a little while.”

“And that is all?  You don’t dislike him, do you?”